Of Dragons and Tamers
by Ceelia-19
Summary: Charlie is a chronic bachelor, much to his mother's frustration. But hey, he can't help it that he has such a demanding job, right? Perhaps, somewhere in that big wide world there's a man who's perfect for him, but Charlie has little hope he'll ever find him and is quite content with life as it is. Until he meets a whole other brand of dragon - a blonde one with a past and a temper
1. Chapter 1

Full summary:  
Charlie is a chronic bachelor, much to his mother's frustration. But hey, he can't help it that he has such a demanding job, right? Perhaps, somewhere in that big wide world there's a man who's perfect for him, but Charlie has little hope he'll ever find him and is quite content with life as it is. Until he meets a whole other brand of dragon - a blonde one with a past and a temper. A delicate love sprouts, but will it grow into something more when the Weasley family is in disarray, the Malfoy Company is under attack and the wizarding world is still full of prejudges, as well as threatened by a grave and mysterious danger?

Warnings: Explicit sex (slash of course, though other pairings are mentioned), substance abuse and swearing. All in all this will be a pretty lighthearted fic, though it has its share of drama and suspense.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything. I wish I did, but I don't *sigh* I did invent the town Greenbury, the dragon reserve and the university though, and there will probably be a few minor OC's in the future.

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_**Chapter 1**_

The Greenbury Dragon Reserve was a grand and beautiful place. There were miles and miles of deep, flourishing woods; green fields and hills dotted with small lakes and veined with gently flowing rivers. It was very different from Romania, with its imposing mountains, wild valleys, roaring rivers and seemingly endless rolling hills. One could walk there for days and never see a soul. Charlie Weasley missed it, that savageness and sense of freedom you just couldn't find in Great Britain. He also missed his Romanian friends. Though loud and thick-headed they could be, they were also passionate and good-humored. Still, he felt at home here – and not just because of the presence of his beloved dragons. Here he felt more close to his family. He visited the Burrow way more often now than he did when he was still in Romania, which was logical considering the easiest way to travel between countries is via international portkeys, which are quite expensive.

His family was the sole reason Charlie had left the country he loved in order to return to the land he was born and raised. He wanted to be there – _needed_ to be there – to help them pick up the pieces. The war had been hard on all of them, though things could have been way worse. They could've lost more than just Fred. Hell, if things would've gone slightly differently Voldemort and his Death Eaters would have been victorious and they would've lost _everything_. But Charlie wasn't the kind of man to dwell on the past and the different paths history could've taken.

Charlie was sitting in the grass in front of his tent. The tent was midnight-blue, and of course way bigger from the inside than it appeared on the outside. The summer sun had almost set, but there was still a lot of light in the sky. The summers in Great Britain were generally cooler and more stable than those in Romania, where – depending on the point of day and your location – the temperatures could vary between ten and fifty degrees celsius. Charlie found the British summer somehow less enjoyable and even a bit boring, but it couldn't be helped. The winters here were better though, less cold. Charlie did not like the cold, though years of icy winds and knee-deep snow had hardened his skin.

Charlie lit a cigarette. In the distance he could hear a dragon roar – it was a Hebridean Black, one of the two dragon breeds that lived in the reserve. Green Welsch was the other. The Reserve was a project Charlie had started with two British friends, and it was a great success. The thing that made this reserve so unique was the fact that people could visit it – under strict supervision of the tamers of course. The idea behind the project was to show people the magnificence of dragons, without turning them into pets. Dragons were wild creatures, majestic and unboundable. They could not be tamed, not really, and that's what made being a dragon tamer so exciting. It was a job that not actually existed. Every day was a challenge, and every day you discovered something new. A dragon tamer was never fully accomplished. Charlie would not trade his job for any amount of gold.

He exhaled deeply and lay down on his back. He knew he should eat something, but he wasn't hungry. Yesterday Molly had fed him so much food he was sure he wouldn't have to eat for days. His mother was always delighted when he joined for dinner, and she constantly urged him to come more often. Because despite the fact that he lived nearby now, he didn't show up as often as he could. Once every two or three weeks was enough for him. He loved his family, and the Burrow, but they could be _suffocating_.

Dinner yesterday had been a chaotic ordeal. Bill and Fleur and their baby daughter Amélie had been there, and Percy and his new girlfriend – a bland girl named Priscilla. Ginny and Harry had announced their engagement, and Charlie suspected Ron and Hermoine would be announcing theirs soon.

Of course, his mother didn't wait long to put a spotlight on his lovelife.

"Charles, dear, why don't you bring a nice boy along next time you visit?"

Instant silence. Bill, Harry and all the girls at the table shot him a sympathetic glance, while his father, Ron and Percy shifted uncomfortably in their chairs. George was just trying not to laugh.

Molly looked at him expectantly and Charlie resisted the urge to sigh. She just couldn't help it, did she? She just had to go and bring up his lovelife – or lack thereof, at least in her eyes – at the dinner table.

Charlie shoved a spoonful of pudding in his mouth. "Wouldn't count on it, mum. I'm not really seeing anybody."

"You never do. You should go out more, work is not everything in life."

Charlie thought he went out plenty. It was true he lived for his work - dragons were his world. A couple of months ago the eggs of one of the female Green Welsch' had hatched, and Charlie's heart had glowed as if he'd given birth himself. Not that he would tell that to anybody.

Still, he did have a social life. If wanted wanted amiable company, he'd go to his co-workers or Bill. If he wanted sex, he'd go to Moonlit alley, where the gay bars of wizarding London resided. It's true he hadn't been in a committed relationship for a long time, but Charlie couldn't imagine that would change in the nearby future. He had an unusual life. He spent a lot of time with the dragons and often travelled abroad for jobs. He'd have to find a man who accepted that and shared his need for freedom as well as his love for dragons. A man with personality and a strong will. A man who could appreciate silence and liked to play it rough sometimes. Charlie was sure a man like that existed, but to actually find him was a whole other story.

"I don't want to be meddlesome, dear," his mother said. "I just don't want you to be lonely."

"I'm not, mum, really" Charlie said, slightly irritated and not hiding it. Truth to be told, sometimes he did feel a bit lonely, sometimes he did miss a warm body to wake up with, someone to share trivial things with and shag on a daily basis. But he wasn't going to tell his mother that. Merlin knows she'd try to play matchmaker between him and some boring ministry paper-pusher that happened to be gay and single and friends with one of the numerous members of the Weasley-clan.

Before Molly could pursue the topic any further Bill distracted her with a story about little Amélie and her love for all things shiny. Charlie was thankful he could always count on his older brother to safe his ass. Bill was easily his favorite sibling, they could talk to each other about everything. Whereas his father and his other brothers still not felt completely comfortable around topics like his sexuality, Bill had been accepting and supporting from the start.

Charlie made a mental note to pay a visit to Bill and his family one of these days. It had been months since he'd been at the Shell.

Charlie put out his cigarette and rubbed his face, which was so tanned you could barely see his freckles. It was time to check how the little dragons were doing. Dragon tamers distinguish three phases in a dragon's life. The first phase is the infant phase that starts right after the hatching, when the dragons are dependent of their mother. During that phase it's veritably impossible for tamers to get close to them. The second phase could be compared to a child's teenage years. In that phase the dragons leave their parents and work together as siblings to find food and shelter. Their mother pretty much disappears out of their lives, though they stay in the neighborhood. The third phase is adulthood: each dragon goes his own merry way.

The dragons Charlie was going to check up on were four Green Welsch in the second phase, hatched a few months ago. He grabbed his broom and flew over the trees, to an open spot beside the river where the dragons had built their nest.

Even high up in the air, Charlie spotted the man among the young dragons easily – his half-long, very light blonde hair stuck out like a star in the night sky. He was on his knees in the grass and cautiously stroked Lara with the tips of his fingers. Lara was one of the more quiet teenage dragons, yet it was hard to believe that she would let a stranger touch her. Frankly, Charlie was astonished. He had to blink a few times to wrap his mind around the scene in front of him.

The rare moment of astonishment did not last long and Charlie all but raced towards the man.

"Hey! What are you doing?! Are you fucking trying to get yourself killed?!"

Lara screeched, startled by the shouting. She spread her wings and flew to her nest with a sharp swipe of her tail. The blonde hissed in pain and grabbed his right arm.

Charlie threw his broom in the grass and crouched down beside him. "Are you hurt?"

"No," the man said defiantly, still cradling his arm.

"Yes you are. Let me take a look at that."

Charlie lighted his wand with a voiceless Lumos. The man's sleeve was torn and his arm bloody, probably cut by Lara's tail. Charlie inspected the wound and saw it wasn't very deep.

"Nothing I can't fix… But it could have been way worse. This was extremely stupid of you."

The man huffed. "Everything went well until you started shouting. Some dragon-tamer you are."

"Hey, do you want me to fix you up or are you going to keep up being an arsehole?"

The blonde sighed but didn't protest.

"I thought so." Charlie apparated them both to his tent. He ordered the man to sit down on the sofa and kneeled down in front of him.

"Roll up your sleeve."

The blonde obeyed and Charlie muttered a healing spell. Within seconds the wound was closed.

"There. Not even a scar." He got on his feet and sat down next to him. "What were you doing there anyway?"

"Well, this reserve _is_ open for public, is it not?" the man drawled.

"Yes, but at daytime. In the company of one of the tamers. And you have to pay for entrance."

"Oh."

"Yeah, oh. And it sure as hell didn't look like you were doing this for the first time." Charlie was not as mad as he should be. He was mostly curious.

"I've been here a few times before," the blonde admitted.

"I thought so. Still, it's surprising she allowed you to do that. She must've taken a liking to you, otherwise she would've ripped your arm right off your body. Do you have experience with dragons?"

The blonde looked him in the eye, for the first time that night. His eyes were grey, perhaps even a bit blue. It was too dark to tell. The only light came from a small oil lamp on the side table that cast large shadows in every direction and gave the blonde's hair a fiery glow.

"Not really," the man said. "I've only ever seen them in my fourth year at Hogwarts, at the tournament. That first test was the only one that wasn't a complete bore to watch."

"Ah, the tournament." Charlie smiled. "I was there to keep the dragons in check. Good memories. If you don't mind me asking, how old are you?"

Charlie found the man's age hard to guess. He could be eighteen; he could be twenty-eight. He had a slender physique and – as far as Charlie could tell – an almost impossibly pale and flawless complexion. If he were to make a guess based on those traits alone, he would've gone for eighteen, but his eyes didn't seem those of a teen. They were the eyes of a man who'd seen many things and lost a lot of illusions.

The blonde was silent for a moment, and Charlie feared he'd asked too personal a question.

"Twenty-one," he said eventually.

"Then you were probably in the same year as my brother, Ron."

A slight look of disdain flickered in the blonde's eyes. It was brief, but Charlie didn't miss a beat.

"I take it you two weren't friends."

The man shrugged. "I was in Slytherin, he was a Gryffindor and a git," he said, as if that explained everything. Charlie didn't know whether to be amused or insulted. He settled for mild amusement and a slightly accusing stare that the blonde ignored.

The man shifted and gave Charlie a subtle once-over, his eyes lingering on his broad shoulders before returning to his face. "Should have known you were a Weasley. With the hair and stuff..."

Charlie grinned. Everybody knew of the trademark Weasly red hair. "Charlie Weasley, nice to meet you." He offered his hand.

The blonde shook it. "Likewise."

"And you are…?"

"… David. David Faith."

Charlie let go of his hand. "You live in the neighborhood?"

"Yeah."

"Let me guess, a student at the Magical University Of Greenbury?"

The Magical University Of Greenbury was one of the four magical universities in Great Britain, specialized in the study of nature, creatures and the universe. It was located in the center of Greenbury, a small and very old magical village in Wiltshire, completely devoid of muggles.

"Hmmm," David hummed consentingly.

"What's your major?"

"… Astronomy. I study the stars and stuff."

"Sounds fascinating."

"It quite is. Otherwise I wouldn't be studying it, obviously." There was an arrogant tilt to his chin Charlie found oddly… endearing.

"Too bad. You would have made a damn fine dragon tamer."

"When I was young there was a time when I wanted to work with dragons. I admired them, and dreamed of seeing one in real life. I even asked one for my birthday."

Charlie snickered and David gave a small smile.

"Of course my dad wasn't at all impressed with my career-plans. I was to take over his business."

"That sucks. What does he think of you studying astronomy then?"

"If he'd still been alive, he'd be furious. Eventually he would've accepted it though. After all I was his only son. He spoiled me rotten."

"I'm sorry."

"About what?"

"Your father, that he's dead."

"It's okay. He's been dead for almost a year now." David looked at his feet. There was a gravity in his voice Charlie recognized all too well.

Charlie grit his teeth. "I hate that fucking war. It took my brother, an Auror that was one of my best friends, her husband, and so many other lives. And for what?"

"A madman," David said softly, his gaze thousandth miles away.

"Yeah…" That one man can cause so much pain and suffering was beyond Charlie. Though it was never just one man, was it? He couldn't have come as far as he had without his followers. But it was one idea, one hate, one dedication to madness.

"But to hell with this depressing subject. The war is over. Firewishkey?"

David blinked in surprise. "Firewishkey? Well, if you're offering…"

Charlie grinned. "Nothing like alcohol to drown depressing thoughts." He accio'd two glasses and a bottle that was already half-empty.

"I like your way of thinking, Weasley. You're not half bad."

Charlie raised his eyebrows. "Not half-bad? I suppose that's a big compliment coming from your mouth." He handed David a well-filled glass.

"How come?" David leaned back and swirled the liquor in his glass in a graceful, hypnotizing manner.

"You don't seem like a very complimentary person."

David seemed amused. "Found that out already, did you?"

"I'm good with people."

"And here I was thinking that dragon-tamers were unsocial hermits."

Charlie laughed. "Yeah we kinda are. But every once in a while we feel a desperate need for human contact and let our true colors show."

"So this is one of those moments? I feel honoured."

"Yeah you should." Charlie sipped from glass. There was a comfortable moment of silence. "You know what, David? We should do this more often," he said without thinking.

David looked slightly taken aback.

"I mean, I figured you might want to see Lara again – the dragon. You seemed quite smitten with her and I daresay she feels the same about you."

The blonde relaxed. "Yeah, that would be nice."

"I'll be here every night for the next five days. Just apparate and I'll bring you to her."

"And where will you go after those five days?" the blonde asked curiously.

"Home. I don't always live in a tent, you know. I have an apartment in Greenbury. Nothing fancy, but good enough for me. We work with a small group here at the reserve, eight people me included, and there always have to be at least two of us present to keep an eye on things. So we have shifts. This week it's my turn."

David nodded. "Fair enough." He put his glass down on the side table and stood up. "I should be going. I've taken up enough of your time."

"I don't mind," Charlie said. "It's nice to have some new company every once in a while."

"In that case: you're welcome." That small, haughty smile Charlie was starting to like was back.

"I'll see you around," Charlie responded.

David studied him for a moment. Charlie didn't know what the man was looking for, neither if he'd found it or not when he said: "You will" and apparated away.

Charlie poured himself another drink and realized he was still smiling – a smile that didn't leave his face for quite a while, not even when he fell asleep.

**_-TBC-_**

_**Let me know what you think ^^**_


	2. Chapter 2

New chapter! Much thanks for all the reviews! Earlier I said I was probably going to introduce some OC's sooner or later… well let's say some unexpected plotbunnies paid me a visit and it turned out there were some OC's that wanted to take the stage sooner rather than later… And by sooner I mean _now. _All hail the plotbunnies.

(ps: I changed Draco's age to 21, which in hindsight fitter the story better. Also I spotted some grammar mistakes… damn the world for not speaking Dutch and forcing me to write in English to appeal to the general public)

Disclaimer: Still not owning anything but my imagination.

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_**Chapter 2**_

Draco Malfoy had made many mistakes in his life. Taunting that ugly hippogriff in third year had been a mistake. Snogging the son of one his father's business associates in the Manor's library had been a big mistake. Taking the dark mark and throwing himself at the mercy of the biggest monster to have ever walked the earth… well, that had to be the deepest low, a mistake he was still paying for every hour of every day.

Draco was done with mistakes, done with humiliation, disappointment and defeat. He'd sworn he'd never make a mistake again, not ever. And he had been doing a great job, until he met Charlie Weasley. Instead of apologizing and disappearing off the reserve's territory, never to return again, he had befriended the red-haired tamer. Sort of. Draco wasn't sure, to be honest. He'd never been an expert in the field of making friends. His Slytherin friends had been handed to him on a silver platter; they had worshipped him from day one because of his name and his knack for well-formulated, razor-sharp barbs and graceful sneers.

But Charlie was a Weasley. And a Weasley who was under the assumption that his name was David Faith and that he was an Astronomy student, which he was not. When Draco had realized Weasley – no, _Charlie_ – had no clue of who he was, he was faced with a familiar dilemma: to lie or not to lie. As usual, he had chosen the first option, though in hindsight that might have been a big, _big _mistake.

Draco knew Charlie would hate him when he'd discover the truth. Weasleys hated Malfoys. It was one of those universal truths that were comforting in their consistency, like the colour of grass, the lameless of Hufflepuffs and Potters hero-complex. It was a truth that raised a question though: why did Draco even care? Why did he lie in the first place? Why did it matter to him whether a Weasley liked him or not? Surely he wasn't _this_ desperate for a friend? He had Pansy, and Blaise, and his mother (Vince – the bastard – died, Theo was in Azkaban and Greg had disappeared off the face of the earth after the battle so that led to a rather pathetically short list). Of course Pansy was in Germany and Blaise in Sicily with his new _belle_. And his mother… well she was his mother, and six months in Azkaban on top of the death of her beloved husband weighted on her. She had changed, and so had he.

Alright, so maybe he did want to be friends with Charlie. He was nice, intelligent, laid-back and had a sense of humor Draco could appreciate. Also he was more handsome than a Weasly should be. The red hair looked good on him; it complemented his tanned skin and bright blue eyes perfectly. And he was obviously in great shape… but that was not a train of thought Draco wanted to pursue. Charlie was still a Weasly, and sooner or later he'd discover the truth. Draco still bore the Dark Mark, which had faded a bit after the Dark Lord's death but unfortunately hadn't disappeared completely, and his face could be found in many old newspapers. It was only a matter of time before something would set Charlie off.

All in all, Draco found he had landed himself in an ambiguous situation. He liked Charlie and wanted to be friends with him, but he knew he would hurt in the end. Charlie was not likely to forgive him for lying and being a former Death Eater and a Malfoy to boot.

A feeling of dread and uncertainty crept over him like a legion of tiny spiders. He leaned against the stone balustrade and inhaled the thick summer air. The southern balcony afforded an entrenching view on the garden of Malfoy Manor. It was more alive than its owners. The fountains danced, bees and butterflies were lounging around lazily, leaves whispered in the wind and roses in all colours imaginable embraced it all.

"Oh, troubles, troubles," he hummed. He longed for a cool glass of white _Romanée-Conti._

"Draco?" said his mother in a delicate voice.

Draco turned around and faced her. She looked beautiful in the kind summer sun, even though she was thinner than she should be and her long golden hair was slightly bland and invaded by strands of gray. She wore white robes that were too thick for the season. She smiled at him.

"Will you play me some music, sweetness?"

The wine would have to wait. "Of course mother," Draco said and he followed her inside, to the music room. In the center of the room was grand piano, black with silver accents. His mother sat down on the burgundy sofa and listened with closed eyes while he played all her favorite songs.

Exactly two years ago, on the seventh of June, two days after his nineteenth birthday, his mother had stood to trial. The day after that he had found himself on the exact same spot: shackled to a chair in front of the Wizengamot and dozens of reporters and other interested parties. Harry Potter had spoken in both their defense, much to Draco's surprise. He hadn't known Potter's hero-complex and sense of justice stretched _this_ far. Potter saved both him and his mother from life-long sentence Draco knew they did not deserve.

Still, they had been charged with an imprisonment of six months and a sizable monetary penalty. Because despite the fact that he hadn't killed Dumbledore, hadn't identified Potter that horrible night at the Manor, and _had_ tried to save the golden trio from Vince in the Room of Requirement, he was still a Death Eater. The mark could not be taken unwillingly – a measure the Dark Lord had taken to assure the loyalty of his followers – and Draco had used unforgivables. He hadn't used the killing curse – thank Melin he'd never got the hang of that, otherwise even Potter wouldn't have been able to help him – but he had used the Cruciatus, Imperio and a fair amount of other dark curses. It didn't matter that he'd been at the receiving end of the Crucio more often than the giving, or that the Dark Lord had threatened to kill both him and his parents if he didn't do as told. It didn't matter that he truthfully and wholeheartedly regretted everything that had happened. Draco had shown too little defiance and too much cowardice to be completely excused of his crimes. And that was all right. He got what he deserved, he understood that now. Even his father, who had received the kiss and was now as good as dead – no, worse than dead – got what he deserved, no matter much it pained Draco and his mother.

The six months at Azkaban had been the longest of Draco's life, though now, one and a half year later, it felt like nothing more than the memory of an uncannily lively and horrible nightmare. A nightmare that walked the fine line between absolute agony and mind-numbing monotony. That was what made Azkaban so cruel: it wasn't just agony you felt, your worst memories and greatest fears attacking every corner of your mind, it was the monotony of that agony, and the habituation that slowly crept in. If he had stayed there much longer, Draco was sure he'd gone mad. The agony would have become his world, the very foundation of his mind, and he would have lost every trace of himself.

"Why did you stop playing?" his mother asked.

Draco blinked. He hadn't even noticed he'd stopped. Damned memories.

"I'm sorry mother, I'm a bit tired I think."

"Oh, well then you should rest."

Draco sat down next to his mother and laid his hand on hers. "Are you hungry? Shall I call for Marianne?"

She shook her head. "I'm not hungry. I've eaten a few hours ago."

A few hours according to Narcissa could equal half a day in real life. Azkaban had somehow managed to mess up his mother's sense of time. Sometimes she thought he was still sixteen, sometimes that he was as old as his father. "Where has the time gone?" she'd ask then. "How did you grow up this fast? If only your father were here to see you…"

"You should eat. I'll ask Marianne to bring you some sandwiches."

She pursed her lips but nodded. Draco smiled gently. Marianne knew what to do; she'd make sure his mother would eat.

He took a little silver bell out of his pocket and rang it. The sound was soft and melodious but carried far and could be heard throughout the entire manor. Marianne apparated in front of him soundlessly. "Lord Malfoy, how can I help you?" a small woman with a very straight back and short, impeccable grey curls asked.

"Could you make my mother some sandwiches and fresh orange juice?"

"With pleasure," Marianne said with a nod, and she disappeared.

Marianne and her husband Adhelm were a godsend. Among a ridiculous amount of gold and all their dark artifacts, the ministry had also seized their house-elves after the war. Draco had been forced to search for a human servant, since he and his mother couldn't possibly take care of the entire household by himself. Hell, he didn't know a single household charm and neither did his mother. Sadly, there proved to be very little people willing to serve ex-Death Eaters – especially not in a house that was once inhabited by the fearful Dark Lord himself. Only Marianne and her husband were able to brush those issues away like dust on a shelf.

Marianne had been the housekeeper of the Parkinsons before they permanently moved to Germany, and Adhelm had been their gardener. The Parkinsons were relatively poor for a pureblood family as old as theirs, due to some bad investments and tension between family members, and had lost their house-elves a long time ago. It was Pansy who had recommended Marianne and Adhelm to him when she heard of his problem, and for that, Draco was eternally grateful to her.

During the job interview Marianne had claimed her household charms were the best in the whole of the British Isles. Draco had no way to test the validity of that claim, but was inclined to believe her since the manor looked as immaculate as it ever had when the house-elves were still there.

Adhelm in his turn did a great job with the forty acres of land that were attached to the Manor. There was not even the slightest trace of weed to be found around the gardens and the lawns always looked freshly mowed.

Draco left his mother behind in the music room with a book and walked to his study. He took a bottle of wine from the liquor cabinet, together with a crystal glass that cost more than the entire tableware of most households. He sat down, poured himself a big glass and lit a cigarette. With the glass in his one hand and a cigarette in the other he leaned back in his chair – a green leather one that was once his fathers, as was the entire study. This study – the largest one in the entire estate – had always belonged to the Lord of the manor; a title that had been his for two years now, though it still felt odd sometimes.

Draco took a drag of his cigarette and tried to empty his mind. He had an important decision to make.

_To go or not to go._

Draco wasn't a heavy smoker. He only did it at parties and when he was stressed, like he was now.

_To go or not to go._

Yesterday, Charlie had told him he could come over whenever he'd like. Just apparate, he'd said.

Draco wanted to see him, he really did. And Lara as well – though he refused to call her Lara. It was no respectable name for a dragon.

He hadn't been lying to Charlie when he said he'd visited the dragons a couple of times before. He had only made it sound like three of four times, while in reality it had been at least a dozen. The first time he went was about four months ago. He'd been contemplating paying a visit to the reserve for quite some time then, and on one bright night when he was sitting alone in his study he just decided to go. It might've had something to do with the fact he was mildly intoxicated at the time. Alright, perhaps he had been a bit more than just a little bit intoxicated, because no matter how you looked at it, flying on your broom through a reserve inhabited by huge, full-grown, fire-breathing reptiles with wings and big sharp teeth wasn't the most brilliant idea of the century.

Draco had been incredibly lucky. Instead of a disturbing the sleep of an adult Hebridean Black, which was a particularly nasty breed, he'd found a young Green Welsch. Green Welsch were as curious as dragons got, and in their teenage months they were quite tolerant of humans.

Draco had been mesmerized by the beauty and power of the small creature. The dragon wasn't much bigger than himself, with golden eyes and a shiny skin of the deepest green. He didn't dare to touch her that night – not a chance in hell she would have let him and Draco was very keen on keeping all his body parts – but the more often he visited, the more accustomed to him the dragon got. Eventually they got to the point where Draco collected all his courage and touched her. And to his immense joy, she allowed it. He had started with her wing, taking a bit further every time visited her until she allowed him to touch her neck.

That was when Charlie had caught him in the act. Up until then, Draco had been extremely careful not to get caught. He didn't fancy facing an army of angry dragon-tamers. He always paid much attention to his surroundings, and if he sensed the magic of another wizard (a useful trait that ran in the Malfoy family) he disapparated immediately. He knew the area where the teenage Green Welsch lived well enough to apparate in and out without trouble.

Draco startled slightly when an owl landed on his desk. It was huge grey owl with a complex and very beautiful pattern on his feathers. The owl practically screamed importance and Draco recognized it immediately.

He gritted his teeth. Quintrell Bellard D'Ancelet. Oh, how he loathed that French bastard.

_Dear Lord Malfoy,_

_I hope that you and your _lovely_ mother are well. I am writing to you concerning the take-over of Honeykettle Industries. Some complications regarding the replacement of the chief company director have reached my ear, together with some other issues I'd like to discuss with you in person, preferably over a fine glass of wine from your cellar. I hope we can put our petty disagreement over your flawed credibility as head of Malfoy Holding Corporation behind us and meet eye to eye like civilized _adults_._

_I suggest a meeting next Monday at one o'clock, if it's convenient._

_With the highest regards,_

_Quintrell Bellard D'Ancelet_

Draco growled and tore the parchment in two. "My _lovely _mother… flawed credibility… civilized _adults… _that fucker!" He lit the parchment on fire with a flick of his wand.

He hated D'Ancelet with an intensity that made the hate he once harbored towards The Boy Who Refused To Roll Over And Die seem cute – and that was saying a lot. Only the Dark Lord had ever made it higher on his List Of People He Would Gladly Suffocate With Their Own Intestines.

Quintrell Bellard D'Ancelet had been his father's greatest business rival. But where the rivalry of D'Ancelet and his father had been based on a reluctant mutual respect, the one between Draco and the Frenchman was one of disdain on D'Ancelet's part, and utter frustration on Draco's. D'Ancelet had made it very clear that he thought Draco too young, too inexperience and generally unfit to take over his father's position.

It was utterly frustrating because Draco'd had an incredibly difficult time making things right again after his father's 'death' and the general chaos the war had caused. It was only thanks to the family's accountant, Henry McGrath, and the solicitor, Wayne Witte, who had been Lucius' right hand for as long as Draco could remember, that the Malfoy Corporation was still up and running.

Draco had been groomed from birth to eventually take over his father's position. Lucius had told him all the do's and don'ts, and had sometimes even taken him to business meetings so he could see with his own eyes how the game was played. Business meetings were not unlike a fight, a wizarding duel to the death, though his father had always compared it to dancing. You should never lose your focus, never underestimate your opponent and never show uncertainty, unless it is part of a ploy. What you should do is find out everything there is to know about both your friends and enemies, and always keep in mind what their goal is.

"Everybody wants something," Draco remembered his father telling him. "The trick is to make what they want compatible with what you want."

Draco had tried to be like his father, had tried to become the marble statue that was Lucius in business-mode. His face a mask of carefully calculated expressions; his voice authoritative and all-knowing; his manner the epitome of confidence; his decisions absolute and never wrong.

It had been hard – the hardest thing he'd ever done. After his first true meeting, he drunk a whole bottle Firewishkey and cried himself to sleep. Behind closed doors, where he had no need for masks and could be the child he still was somewhere deep inside, he screamed and shouted, hexed innocent objects and cursed everything and everybody – the Dark Lord for being an evil monster; his father for choosing the wrong side and leaving him behind all alone; the entire Malfoy Holding Corporation and all its partners and enemies for being a pain in the arse.

Over the months, Draco anger had subdued and he had adapted to the role of Lord Malfoy. He was getting better and better at it, and sometimes it was even fun. But he was still insecure, still overwhelmed, still missing a lot of experience and knowledge. D'Ancelet could smell that like a bloodhound – and made no secret of it. Draco suspected the man would gladly ruin him and take over everything the Malfoy family company had.

And they still had a lot, despite the heavy blows they had received over the past few years. In the business world, it's gold that talks. And gold the Malfoy family still had in large amounts. Draco had found that in the business world, it didn't matter whether you were a former Death Eater or not.

They had lost all ties to the ministry though, but Draco thought that a blessing rather than a loss. Unlike his father, he wanted nothing to do with politics. He was also very careful to not mingle with any shady business. He stayed as far away as possible from everything that could potentially land him in prison. He couldn't go back to that place - never again. It would be the end of him.

Another difference between his own policy and that of his father were his donations to charity, which he had doubled. Draco knew he and his mother would never have to fear to receive anything but the best treatment at St. Mungo's. He practically owned half of the place.

Draco rubbed his face tiredly and sat down again. The smoke of his cigarette made him nauseous and he put it out. He emptied his glass and banned D'Ancelet from his mind. He still had a decision to make.

_To go or not to go._

It wasn't such a hard decision anymore.

_**-TBC-**_

**_Next chapter: Charlie and Draco meet for the second time. Is it a date? I think it is, though the boys don't seem to realize it. At first. Anyway, troubles emerge. Because what is story without troubles? Bo-ring._**

**_I'm very interested in what you think of Draco's position as high-and-mighty company boss. I know that in many other stories it isn't clear exactly how the Malfoys got this rich (and stayed it) and what Lucius was doing all day besides hanging around the ministry and bribe people. This seemed like the most logical explanation to me._**


	3. Chapter 3

So I promised troubles last chapter... Didn't quite work out like I planned it. In fact, a lot of things turned out differently than anticipated. For starters, the story has suddenly turned M. It's a bit soon, but the boys wanted it. So who am I to deny their wishes?

Much thanks to the mysterious reviewer R who pointed out that adultery is not the same thing as adulthood. At all. I'm quite the perfectionist so even the thought alone of a mistake as awful as that made me shiver. So thanks hon ^^

Disclaimer: I'm not JK Rowling in disguise so I don't own shit.

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_**Chapter 3**_

"You know, I've never had roasted marshmallows before," David said as he studied the half-melted piece of candy. "Didn't even know they existed."

Charlie grinned. "I'm not surprised, they're muggle candy."

"_Muggle _candy? You're feeding me something that's made by _muggles?_" David eyed the marshmallows with disgust. "That's horrible – those _things _are horrible. I can't believe you tricked me into eating them!"

Charlie laughed. "Oh shut it. You liked them well enough when you didn't know they were muggle-made."

"Did not."

Charlie threw a marshmallow at him. It bumped against his head and landed in the grass, right in front of the campfire Charlie had set up a few meters away from his tent. The sun had given way for the dark night sky many hours ago. It was a cool night and the stars were often obscured by banks of clouds, but by the fire it was more than pleasantly warm. Charlie was only wearing a white t-shirt and jeans; David a pine green dress shirt and a pair of khakis.

"Ouch," David whined. "And now you're molesting me as well. You're the worst friend I've ever had."

"Deep down you love it." Charlie winked. Oh dear merlin, he was totally flirting, wasn't he? And he hadn't even had a drop of alcohol.

David raised his eyebrows but smiled at the same time. His grey eyes glistened in the light of the fire. "I don't think you know me quite well enough to make such a claim."

"Then I'll just have to get to know you even better, don't I?"

"Careful Weasly, you're playing with fire…"

"Then it's a good thing I'm a dragon tamer, dealing with fire is my expertise."

Draco laughed – it was a sound Charlie was starting to love. Frankly, he was starting to love a lot of things about David. The graceful way he moved, the way his white-blond strands brushed his shoulders. His playful sneers and insults and his natural haughtiness. He really, _really _liked him. Perhaps even a bit too much. It was overwhelming and he had the feeling he was sliding down a hill that was rapidly growing steeper and steeper. But maybe that was a good thing. It could be, if David felt the same way. Charlie wasn't sure that the blonde was gay, but he highly suspected it. Charlie had been making suggestive remarks all night and he was pretty sure that the semi-sultry glances the blonde had been sending in his direction weren't just a fabrication of his imagination.

Also, he was just way too pretty to be straight.

Charlie remembered the child-like excitement he'd felt when he'd found David standing on his 'doorstep' a few hours after sunset. He gave the blonde a full tour of the reserve and enjoyed the various expressions of awe that appeared on his face. They had also visited Lara and Charlie was once again amazed to see how good David was with her. He truly would have made a great dragon tamer.

They had talked about a lot of things and as they spoke Charlie discovered that David was not only very intelligent – he and Hermoine would get along tremendously well – they also had a great common interest besides dragons: quidditch. David told him he didn't play himself, but that he was a fervent supporter of the Appleby Arrows. Charlie himself preferred Puddlemere United, which led to a lengthy discussion about the finer points of the noble art of seeking and the infamous Parkin's Pincer (a move most people thought should be illegal, but both Draco and Charlie though genius – quidditch is not a game for pussies.)

Charlie's brow furrowed when he saw something small moving in the dark. The shape came closer rapidly, and Charlie realized it was an owl. The bird dropped a small, flat package in his lap. It was the latest edition of the _Quibbler, _the most popular magazine in wizarding Britian. The _Quibbler_ came out weekly and had a knack for arriving at odd and uncomfortable moments. Last week Charlie had had a startled awakening at three 'o clock in the morning because an owl was pecking on his forehead, demanding payment for the _Quibbler _that the stupid bloody bird had dropped right on top of the half-eaten pizza that was lying on the floor next to the bed_._ Not Charlie's favorite way to wake up, and definitely not his favorite time.

The owl sat down on his shoulder and hooted. Charlie fished in his pocket for coins. After the bird had accepted the payment and had disappeared into the night again Charlie studied the cover of the magazine. As usual, the cover was so colourful it made his eyes water. A picture of a triangular glass flask filled with a lavender-blue potion adorned the front page. The name of the magazine was printed in shiny golden letters, and for the headline a fluorescent green font was used. **Addictive Calming Elixer Banned From Shops**, Charlie read.

"Glad I never used that one," David said as he leaned towards Charlie to get a better look at the magazine. Their shoulders touched and Charlie could smell the other man's shampoo.

"What would you need a calming elixir for?" Charlie asked, his voice suddenly slightly hoarse.

David blinked. "Nothing," he said with a hint of defensiveness in his voice. "I don't need it, therefore I never used it. I do smoke though, sometimes, to calm my nerves. Not that I'm nervous very often. But smoking helps either way."

"You're making very little sense," Charlie said amused. "Are you nervous right now?"

David cocked his head. His irises reminded Charlie of molten silver. "Not particularly, no. Are you?"

Charlie shifted, so that their faces were only a few inches apart. David didn't back away. The blonde's hand had somehow managed to find its way to Charlie's knee. Charlie could feel the heath of his palm through his jeans.

Charlie put his hand on top of David's. He studied the ring on the blonde's finger and rubbed it with his thumb. The ring was silver with a green stone and looked very old and valuable. The stone was embraced by two serpent-like creatures with diamond eyes.

Charlie's curiosity was piqued. "What's the story behind that ring?" he asked.

David kissed him. It was smooth and sweet and Charlie's initial surprise quickly faded in a haze of lust. The mysterious ring was instantly forgotten. He wrapped his arms around David and pulled him as close as humanly possible. Their kiss was deep and dazzling and Charlie could not get enough of it.

Until David suddenly broke away. The blonde scrambled backwards in an almost ungraceful manner, looking somewhat panicked.

Charlie swollowed, slightly breathless and light-headed from the kiss. He felt an odd mixture of emotions of which confusion was the most prominent one.

David stood up and brushed some barely-there dirt off the knees of his pants, avoiding Charlie's gaze.

"What? What is it?" Charlie asked and got on his feet as well.

David bit on his kiss-bruised lips and cast a sorrowful glance in Charlie's direction. "I- I'm sorry, this was a mistake."

A mistake. Hurt flashed in Charlie's eyes. "Why, what did I do?"

"Nothing," David said. "It's not you alright, it's me."

"Don't you dare pull that shit on me!" Charlie scowled. Anger boiled up inside him and he didn't try to stop it. He had every reason to be angry. David had kissed _him_, dammit, not the other way around. He didn't deserve this bullshit.

David knitted his eyebrows. His cheeks were slightly flushed. "I'm just being honest," he gritted.

"Honest?" Charlie balled his hands into fists. "If you're going to be honest then tell me what's wrong!"

"Why are you so angry?!" David snapped back.

"Why am I _angry_? Because you fucking kissed me! Then you suddenly pull back and now you refuse to tell me why!"

"Because I don't like you alright!"

"Bullshit," Charlie said coolly.

David's eyes narrowed. Then he smirked. It was an ugly smirk; cruel and confident. "I – don't – like – you," he said slowly and agonizing. "You're just Weasly trash. You're pathetic, even more so if you believed only for a second that something serious was going on here. I just used you. And now I'm tired of you and I don't wish spend another second in your miserable company."

Charlie wanted to deck him. He didn't buy even the smallest word of the venomous bullcrap the blond had been spitting, but he still wanted to deck him. It had to be showing in his face, because David backed away a few steps, his face still the epitome of superior cruelty.

"You are such a _fucking _wanker," Charlie gritted, too mad to even raise his voice. His arms were trembling and it was a miracle his voice wasn't too.

He hated the person that was standing before him now. This wasn't David; this David purposely being the greatest git on earth to distract Charlie from the _real_ issue. But Charlie wasn't that dense, and he was livid with David for believing he was.

Charlie grabbed David's shirt and yanked him forwards. "You are going to tell me the truth _right now_." His voice was a low whisper, hoarse with anger and – dammit – sexual frustration.

David's silver eyes widened and his mouth fell open, but he quickly regained his composure and jerked himself free from Charlie's grip.

"I don't have to tell you anything," he hissed, and Charlie was reminded of a snake driven into a corner.

"Yes, you do." Charlie tried to grab his shirt again but the blonde smacked his arm away.

"Don't – touch – me," he said lowly. His gaze was searing, and Charlie felt an insane sort of arousal.

"What if I want to?" he breathed. His blood was positively boiling and Charlie felt as if his skin was on fire. He wanted to yell at the blond and punch him and _kiss_ him.

"Oh you don't, believe me," David retorted haughtily, slowly shaking his head. That cruel smirk returned and Charlie felt a chill.

David yanked down the sleeve of his left arm. A tattoo came into sight, and the air around Charlie suddenly felt ten degrees colder than before. The tattoo was a green skull with a coiling silver-black snake protruding from its mouth. The colours looked faded, as if the ink had been exposed to an overdose of sunshine, but the imagery was still unmistakable: it was the Dark Mark.

"I was a Death Eater," David said, his voice colder than ice. "And my name is not David but Draco – Draco Malfoy."

Charlie was completely and utterly speechless. He just gaped at the tattoo, as reality dawned on him like pieces of hailstone.

Draco stepped back and let out a shaky breath. The cruel expression fell off his face like a shattered mask. He looked just like Charlie felt: lost and drained.

Draco managed to collect himself before Charlie did. "So, now you know the truth," he said, his voice growing stronger with every word. "Feeling better now? Because I sure as fuck don't."

"Why?" Charlie whispered. "Why did you lie about who you are?"

Draco stared at Charlie as if he'd just asked the most moronic question he'd ever heard. "Why did I lie about who I am?" He breathed a small, joyless laugh. "Because I don't want to be who I am, that's why! Do you know how people look at me when they know who I am? I'll tell you how they look: appalled. They look at me like I'm diseased, like I'm some kind of monster. Either that or a walking stack of gold." His tone was so bitter it was tangible, and made Charlie's skin crawl.

All anger and fight seemed to have flowed from the blonde, leaving behind somebody who looked who fragile and naked. Charlie stared at him like he saw him for the first time. And perhaps that was the truth. He was looking at Draco Malfoy now, not David Faith. Draco Malfoy, about whose personality and tricks he'd heard Ron complain at least a million times. Draco Malfoy, who had tortured in the name of Voldemort and had been tortured by the hand of the very same man. Draco Malfoy, who's wand Harry had used to defeat Voldemort and who Harry had saved from a life of prison.

"Don't just stand there, say something!" the blond shouted. He looked angry again, but different than before. Not in control. He was breathing tight, his eyes edged with pain and desperation.

Charlie slowly stepped forwards. David – no, _Draco _– looked at him, his face the epitome of uncertainty. Charlie reached up. He wasn't thinking – couldn't think, because everything had suddenly gone haywire and thinking would involve facing things Charlie didn't want to face. His body was moving out of its own. He slid his fingers through Draco's hair, knuckles brushing his cheekbone. The blonde didn't flinch, was frozen like a statue. His eyes were wide and glossy with tears. There was confusion in them, and disbelief and _desire. _

Charlie's lips grazed Draco's pulse, his breath breaking hotly across his neck. He felt the blond shiver. Charlie wrapped his arms around Draco's hips, pressing him close. His face was buried in the blonde's warm neck and he felt like he was getting high on his scent. He started kissing the pale skin, tasting salt on his tongue.

"Charlie," the blonde all but moaned.

It was more than Charlie could take. He crushed their mouths together. The blond reciprocated with a hunger that bordered on desperation and Charlie groaned. Nothing mattered anymore; nothing but the sweet taste of Draco's mouth, the strong press of his lips and tongue.

Somehow they ended up in the grass; Charlie on top and Draco underneath. Charlie's erection was begging for attention and he rubbed himself against the blonde. The friction felt so good Charlie could cry.

Draco was panting hard, his hands tugging at the hem of Charlie's shirt. Charlie took the hint. He broke the kiss and pulled his shirt over his head, revealing his toned chest. Draco's eyes settled on the dragon tattoo beneath Charlie's left collar bone.

Charlie didn't give him much time to admire it. He ripped Draco's dress shirt open, not bothering with trivial things like buttons. Charlie's hands roamed around the blonde's chest. His skin was soft and smooth except for the gruesome scar that went all the way from his color bone to the waistline of his khakis. Charlie trailed it with his tongue, then turned his ministrations to the blonde's left wrist. He kissed his way down to the Dark Mark – and sucked on it. Hard. It tasted like sin.

Draco gasped for breath and Charlie smirked. He could feel the blonde's body yearning beneath his. Draco licked his bruised lips almost obscenely and Charlie crushed their mouth together again, tasting blood. His hands fumbled at the blonde's fly, freeing the beautiful strain of desire beneath his khaki confines. With the help of Draco's purposeful hands Charlie's own pants were down in no time and he pressed their erections together. The skin-to-skin contact felt so good Charlie thought he could come right there and then.

He sucked hard on Draco's neck, marking his skin. Draco had his hands in Charlie's short hair and nibbled on his earlobe.

"Please Charlie – n-need you, now," he whispered hotly, his voice shaking with desire.

He didn't have to ask twice. Charlie reached for the back pocket of his jeans, where his wand was. He wasted no time and cast a non-verbal lubrication spell. Draco shuddered when the cold lubricant filled him.

Charlie watched as Draco's face twisted in both pain and pleasure when he shoved two fingers inside. Draco arched his back and whimpered. Charlie didn't think he could get any harder, yet it happened.

He couldn't bear it any longer, he had to be inside of him _now_. He removed his fingers, raised Draco's hips and thrusted inside. Draco let out a sharp cry and Charlie bit down on his bottom lip so hard he drew blood - because _dammit _the blonde was tight.

"Y-you alright?" Charlie asked, panting heavily.

"Move – just move for Merlin's sake," Draco managed to say.

Charlie moved. It felt so good he barely knew what to do with himself. The world was spinning and flashes of white danced before his eyes. He closed them and pressed his forehead against Draco's shoulder.

His strokes grew harder and faster, his breathing increasingly erratic. His mind vaguely registered that Draco was moaning his name, and that he was panting his. The blonde's nails were digging in his back, leaving marks all over him.

Breathless groans escalated and the flashes of white before his eyes turned bright as lightning. _Oh fuck oh fuckohfuck _One last, impossibly deep stroke and Charlie was done for_._ He came harder than he ever had – harder than he ever thought was humanly possible.

Draco bit down on the sensitive spot between the base of Charlie's neck and shoulder and came as well.

Charlie's body went limp, his head still pressed against Draco's bony shoulder. Both were panting to regain their breath.

"Fuck…" Charlie muttered when his oxygen levels had restored enough for him to speak.

"Fuck indeed," Draco said dryly and Charlie chuckled. The night air felt deliciously cool against his hot, sweaty skin.

And so they lay there, naked in the grass underneath the watchful stars. Charlie was content to just fall asleep there and then, on top of Draco with his face buried in the crook of the blonde's neck, were it not for the fact that he was starting to feel pretty bloody cold. The campfire had died some time ago.

Charlie rolled onto his side. His eyes locked with Draco's and his hand absently skated down the blonde's flank, following and the sharp line of his hipbone before flattening on his tight. He was aware that Draco was studying his face, probably looking for signs of regret. He wouldn't find them, because Charlie didn't regret what they had done, and he hoped the blonde didn't either.

"You know…" Charlie started, though he didn't know what he wanted to say exactly. He just knew that he had to say _something_, something with meaning; something that expressed just how much he did not regret what had happened. "This was…"

Amazing? Very much so.  
Unexpected? In some ways.  
Weird but at the same time not? There was a truth if there ever was one.

Charlie decided to throw his cards on the table. "Will you stay the night?"

Draco's eyes widened slightly. "You want me to stay?"

"If you want to. _Do_ you want to?"

Draco sat up. "Yeah," he said. "I would like that."

Charlie couldn't it help it – he smiled and crossed the distance between their mouths. The kiss was soft and gentle and spoke in volumes that neither of them could have put into words.

Draco wrapped his arms around Charlie's neck and deepened the kiss. "Let's go inside," he purred against Charlie's lips. "It's cold as balls out here and I believe I have grass in uncomfortable places."

Charlie smiled. "I believe a hot shower will effectively take care of both those problems…"

"I believe it will take care of more than just _those _problems," Draco said seductively and he stroked Charlie's length.

A pleasant shiver of lust and anticipation shot down Charlie's spine. He raised his eyebrows playfully and let his hands wander down to Draco's ass.  
"If you keep that up I assure you we won't even make it halfway to the shower."

_**- TBC - **__  
_  
_**I can't promise anything for next chapter, since I don't know exactly what needs to be written next yet, but I'm fairly sure that there will be breakfast and some things that are necessary for the plot at hand.  
**_

**_Please let me know what you thought of this… lemon? I suppose it's a lemon, though I've never really understood how sex can be related to something as sour and asexual as a piece of citrus fruit._**


	4. Chapter 4

This is a bit of a transitional chapter, and it turned out slightly longer than it should have been. Ah well, the more words the merrier, right? Also, a new pov will be introduced this chapter! And it's not the only non-Draco or Charlie pov that will appear in this story, I have a few more other pov characters in stall. Yay that!

Disclaimer: as to be expected, nothing has changed much since last chapter… me owns nothing.

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_**Chapter 4**_

He was standing in a small, dark room. The walls had the exact same colour and texture as the floor and ceiling: coarse, old and dark as ashes. Only the wall he was facing was different. Instead of stone there were thick iron bars, striped with rust, and behind those bars shadows streamed by like a river. Every now and then one of them would stop and turn in his direction – look at him, though he could not see the shadow's eyes, he never could – as if it were waiting for something. They would never wait for long. The shadow averted its gaze and floated back to the others, once again becoming a part of the stream.

Draco released the breath he was holding. He feared that someday, a shadow would not return to the others – that it would remain floating behind the bars of his cell, gazing at him until he would suffocate.

He feared that someday, he would die in here.

The atmosphere in the cell changed; light started leaking through the seams between the stones in the wall. The shadows skittered away, repulsed by the green light, and Draco felt incredibly happy; happier than he'd ever thought possible. The shadows were gone and he would never have trouble breathing again.

Light was practically drizzling down the walls now, slow but steady. Draco realized it wasn't actually light but some kind of fluid, bright and green and glowing. No, it wasn't fluid, it was _fire. _

And somewhere in the distance, a boy was screaming as he burned alive.

Draco's breath caught in his throat and his heartbeat quickened. He was feeling hot, way too hot. He started to run but didn't seem to get anywhere, and when he opened his mouth to cry for help, no sound came out. Instead he heard laughter – and it wasn't his own. His own laugh didn't sound this cold and empty and _evil. _Or did it?

"Play along," he heard his father say. "Laugh when he laughs, but always half as much; be angry when is angry, but never more than he is."

Draco started laughing, harder and harder, he couldn't control himself. Terror gripped his throat and his laughter turned strained. He knew he would be punished for this, for laughing harder than the voice of evil.

Draco at last managed to force his teeth together and looked around fearfully, but the cruel laughter had died and the owner of the voice wasn't anywhere in sight. Perhaps he had done well after all, to laugh harder than the voice. But that would mean his father wasn't right and that was impossible because his father was always right.

The green flames were gone. Instead there were huge tapestries on the wall, in red and green, yellow and blue; the colours all clashing and the images vague. There were also paintings, showing scenes of muggles and traitors getting tortured in an old dungeon he knew all too well. Draco looked away and felt a wave of self-loathing for doing so.

"Don't stare at the ground, look at me!" his aunt Bella hissed. She was circling around him, much like a predator would do with its prey. The high heels of her black leather boots made an annoying, monotonous sound and Draco flinched.

"Don't flinch!" she cried. "Why are you so worthless? Cissy spoiled you, if you'd been my son you'd be much tougher. Such a shame, such a waste. _Legilimens!_"

Draco tried to raise the barriers in his mind; envisioned thick, mirroring walls of ice rising out of the snow, higher and higher until they touched the sun. Bella broke right through them.

His aunt stopped pacing and looked him in the eye. Had she always been this much taller than he? Had her eyes always been green?

"Don't you like that I'm here, darling nephew? I'm teaching you out of the goodness of my heart. Am I not a good teacher? Am I not lovely company?"

The sound of her boots grew louder and louder and Draco felt as if his ears were bleeding, like the muggles and traitors were bleeding in the paintings. Thick, warm fluid dripped down his neck and stained his robes.

"I don't know," he answered. "Is the Dark Lord as less a man between the sheets as he is in day-to-day life?"

As soon as the words had left his mouth he cringed, expecting fire and knives and crucio's, but aunt Bella was too preoccupied snogging Nagini to punish him.

"Hey!" Draco yelled. "Didn't you hear what I just said? I insulted your Lord, shouldn't you punish me?"

Bella continued her ministrations on Lord Voldemort's gruesome snake as if Draco was nothing more than a figure in a painting; someone who talked and moved but was not actually real and therefore did not matter.

Which was true, Draco realized. He wasn't in the same room as his aunt at all; he was looking at her and the snake through a window with a wooden frame.

He was just a person in a painting, nothing more and nothing less.

When the hell had that happened?

Draco started running around in his painting to search for his father – surely Lucius would have an answer to this madness? His father always had an answer to all questions, and could turn every answer into another question.

Draco looked behind every tapestry and turned every stone, getting more desperate by the second, until he at last spotted the proud, almost impossibly blonde head of his father in yet another portrait.

"Father!" He cried, feeling immensely relieved. Draco had found his father, and everything would be alright.

Lucius smiled like he had when the aurors took him into custody: sad and full of regret and resignation, but with his head high and his heart cold.

"Restore our family pride, Draco," the Lucius in the portrait said. "It's all up to you now." His father turned around and walked away, his sober but expensive black robes whirling around him majestically.

"Father, wait!" Draco pressed his hands against the portrait. "Where are you going? Don't leave me!"

His mother was playing piano and Draco grabbed her hands. "Mother, where is my wand, I have to accio father."

His mother blinked at him, then smiled. "Harry Potter has your wand, sweetness; he is using it to redecorate the manor. All those mutilated bodies look dreadful on the dinner table and you are way too old to have quidditch posters in your room."

Potter was going to take away his posters. Draco growled angrily and started running towards his room. "Potter!" He shouted. "Give me back my wand! And don't you dare touch my posters!"

He kicked his own door in and found himself eye to eye with a shirtless Charlie. His hair looked wind-blown and his eyes were bluer than the sky. "What took you so long?" Charlie asked. "The marshmallows are getting cold."

The floor was swept away from beneath his feet and he started falling. Falling and falling and falling in a whirlwind of colours until everything turned to black and he awoke with a start.

"Holy fucking shit," Draco gasped, jerking upright as if he were struck by lightning and almost falling out of the bed in the process. He was drenched in sweat and his heart was beating so loud it felt as if was about to jump right out of his chest. He felt extremely disorientated and it took him a few deep, shaky breaths to realize where he was and how he got there. He fell back into the mattress and rubbed his face.

Wow, that was one bizarre dream.

Draco was pretty used to nightmares – though the past few months his nights had been relatively peaceful – but he didn't recall ever having experienced something as weird as this. No, scratch that, he definitely had. His mind worked in inimitable ways and sometimes managed to come up with images that surely would disturb even the most experienced mind-healers at St. Mungo's.

Draco breathed a tired sigh. The memory of the dream he'd just had was already fading away, leaving behind nothing more than a few fuzzy glimpses and echoes and an uncomfortable feeling of alienation.

Draco looked at the man lying beside him. Charlie's sleep seemed to have not been disturbed by Draco's sudden awakening. The red haired man was lying on his stomach, his mouth half-open and the greatest part of his bare back exposed to the air. Even sleeping he looked sexy and for a brief moment Draco wondered if he was still dreaming because Draco Malfoy in Charlie Weasly's bed was quite the implausible scenario.

The day before he'd spend a lot of thought to what would happen when Charlie discovered the truth. Most scenarios had involved a lot of shouting, swearing, disappointment and accusation – and in a certain respect, that was exactly what had transpired. But all in all… it had gone surprisingly well. Draco had not expected this. Admittedly, his mind had humored him a couple of times with scenario's in which Charlie had been incredibly turned on by the fact Draco was a Death Eater, but he hadn't dared to even briefly consider it a valid possibility.

Draco stared at the ceiling of the tent. Light glowed behind the dark-blue cotton canvas; the sun had already set. In a few hours, Charlie would have to get to work and Draco would have to return to the manor. His mother was probably worried. He hadn't told her he would stay away all night.

Draco wondered what Charlie would do when he woke up. Would he kick him out or make him breakfast? Would he want to see him again or tell Draco this was just a one-time thing?

He didn't really like the sound of that last option. Whether that was his vanity speaking (Malfoys were above one-night stands), his libido (sex with Charlie had been more than sufficiently satisfying) or affection for the red-haired tamer (he was quite pleasant company, for a Weasley), Draco wasn't sure. Probably a combination of all three.

Draco suddenly, but not wholly unexpectedly, found himself thinking of Potter's weasel side-kick. That Charlie was actually related to that small-brained, unsightly prick was incomprehensible. Draco briefly imagined what the weasel's face would look like if he'd ever find out about what happened between Draco and Charlie, and felt a delightful tingle of malicious glee. Draco reckoned the weasel's brain would all but implode and chuckled softly at the thought. He knew it was childish of him, but as Lord of Malfoy Manor and head of a whole bloody million-galleons corporation he had every right to be childish sometimes.

His thoughts about the weasel triggered memories from those good old innocent, careless first five years at Hogwards, when his main source of enjoyment in life had been to make golden trio miserable with nasty insults and pranks. Those little moments of hate used to make his day. In hindsight, it was all pretty pathetic. He hadn't been the most charming persona at Hogwards; arrogant, jealous, ignorant and terribly spoiled. More often than not his own schemes ended up biting him in the arse. Draco was glad those days were behind him, though he sometimes missed the simplicity and innocence of life back then. The world had been so much easier to handle when all was still black and white.

Draco yawned. His eyelids were begging him to go back to sleep. He pressed his face against the cushion and breathed in deeply. It smelled like Charlie and Draco felt a smile tuck at the corner of his mouth. He closed his eyes and let sleep once again wash over him. This time, he did not dream.

* * *

His alarm clock rang and he groaned. He pulled the covers over his head and buried his face deeper into the pillows. _Not now, not yet. _He'd had a wonderful dream, and he wanted it back so badly it almost physically hurt. The ringing of the small red alarm clock on the night table next to his bed grew increasingly loud and impatient. George desperately tried to ignore it. _Come back to me, blissful thoughtlessness, come back. _The alarm clock wouldn't have it though. The cursed object hopped right off the night table and onto his pillow, where it turned up the volume once more.

_Merlin be damned. _

"Argh!" George snarled. He threw the covers from his body and grabbed the alarm clock. "I hate you!" With all the force he could muster at seven in the morning, he flung the alarm clock against the wall. It smashed into pieces, and a sweet silence followed.

George moved his legs over the edge of the bed and put his feet on the ground. He sighed tiredly and rubbed his eyes.

A new day, a new shot at life.

The scattered pieces of the alarm clock started to move, magically joining together like a jigsaw puzzle until the clock was as good as new. It gave a self-satisfied little ring and hopped back to the night table.

Those bloody Ever Lasting and Ever Aggravating Alarm Clocks. George cursed the day he invented them.

_No, not just I – together, we invented them together._

George dragged his body to the bathroom and started his morning routine. He relieved his blather. Took a shower. Shaved. Brushed his teeth. When he was done, he stared at his mirror image for a moment and wondered if he'd always looked like this. Tired, with dark, purplish circles under his bloodshot eyes. Pale, his freckles more pronounced than ever. Underfed, with slightly hollow cheeks and ribs that were clearly visible underneath his thin-looking skin.

He looked pathetic. He looked weak. He looked _sick_.

And George couldn't find the will to care.

_Fred, was I like this when you were still here? Did I look different? (Did _we _look different?) Did I feel different?_

George splattered cold water in his face to drown those depressing Wednesday morning thoughts. It was another sunny day; a day full of light and potential happiness, and Weasly's Wizard Wheezes was waiting.

George opened the white bathroom cabinet. On the top shelf was a collection of flasks containing a lavender-coulored potion. **Docter Cabble's Cough Syrup **was the name on the label.

George opened a flask and downed the content in a quick, practiced motion.

A new day, a new shot at life.

* * *

Draco was lying on his back, sleeping like an angel. _Well, not for long_, Charlie thought.

"Wakey wakey," he tickled Draco beneath his ribs.

The blonde stirred, made an annoyed sound and turned on his stomach. He pressed his face in the pillow and muttered something inaudible. Charlie had a distinctive feeling it wasn't anything friendly. It seemed Draco wasn't a morning person. How unfortunate.

Charlie grinned mischievously. He pulled the covers away and trailed butterfly kisses along the blonde's spine.

"Stop that, lemme sleep," Draco said, his voice muffled by the pillow.

Charlie, however, had no intentions at all of stopping. He grabbed Draco by the hips and flipped him over.

"Hey!"

Charlie pointedly ignored Draco's outcry of protest and put his mouth on his neck. From there, he kissed and licked his way down, and then, he sucked hard.

"Fuck!" Draco gasped, now wide awake.

Charlie continued his ministrations and heated moans starting spilling from the blonde's lips.

Draco didn't last long. Charlie wiped a bit of seamen from his lip with a smirk.

"I could get used to waking up like that," Draco purred.

After Draco had returned the favor the blonde left for the shower. Charlie was tempted to join him, but his common sense reminded him that he had to get to work soon or he would be doomed to work with a very disgruntled Skyler today. His boss and good friend did not appreciate it when Charlie showed up late because he overslept, nor did she accept any other reason for lateness if it didn't involve a life-threatening situation.

Charlie sighed and hurried to the kitchen to prepare some breakfast.

Fifteen minutes later Draco gracefully plopped down at the dinner table, where Charlie had just put down a basket of warm bread, a plate with scrambled eggs, a pot of tea, coffee, fresh orange juice and several sweet sandwich fillings. The blonde's hair was magically dried to casual perfection and the first few buttons of his dress shirt were undone, revealing sharp, pale color bone.

Charlie took his mug of tea from the counter and took a sip.

"So… making breakfast for your Death Eater lover?"

Charlie promptly misswolled his tea and started couching uncontrollably. He glared at Draco, who was staring at his nails innocently. Charlie supposed this was the blonde's way of asking Charlie how he truly felt about his past… involvements. Well, two could play that game.

"Sure looks like it, doesn't it? I've made some evil eggs, coffee of death, poisoned tea and all that jazz."

When Draco was in the shower, Charlie had decided that it didn't really matter to him that Draco was a former Death Eater. Sure, the blonde had made some foolish decision and had done some terrible things, more or less out of his own free will, but he had been just a kid, really, and he'd done his time. The world would be a terrible place if everybody would always linger in the past and never move on. Of course, the fact that Draco had been a Death Eater also meant that he held some believes Charlie did not agree with, but the fact that he was here at all with a blood traitor Weasley meant that he didn't quite think that way anymore. People changed, Charlie knew that as well as any other. How much Draco had changed, Charlie didn't know, but frankly he was looking forward to finding out. Draco was interesting, a challenge.

Draco smirked. "That sounds more than delicious. Full of surprises, aren't you, Charlie?"

Charlie's lips quirked. "Oh you haven't seen anything yet. Wait until you taste it."

Charlie started piling Draco's plate with bread and eggs. The blonde suspiciously pricked at the eggs with his fork, before taking his chances and placing them in his mouth. He chewed on them thoughtfully, making small noises that could be interpreted in a broad variety of ways.

Charlie caught himself watching Draco expectantly and mentally slapped himself. He was acting like his mother when she got a new recipe from the Witches' Weekly. Still, he could not stop a satisfied smirk from emerging when Draco admitted that the eggs were great.

They ate in comfortable silence, until the alarm on Charlie's watch went off. The loud and sudden sound of dragon roaring made Draco jump in his chair and Charlie sniggered.

Draco grimaced. "A little warning would have been nice."

"Nah, this is way more fun," Charlie said as he stood up and reached for his wand. "I gotta get to work or Skyler will have my balls."

Draco did not ask who Skyler was but let out a protesting sound when Charlie made the contents of his plate disappear with a flick of his wand.

"I wasn't finished yet," he pouted.

"Too bad." Charlie said. He muttered a spell and the plates and cups started floating in the air. Charlie directed them to the kitchen sink and cringed when they arrived at their destination with a shattering sound.

"Good job," Draco commented dryly.

Charlie sighed. Household spells weren't a specialty of his.

Draco got up from his chair and played with his ring, suddenly looking slightly awkward.

Awkwardness, Charlie found, was as contagious as yawning. "So…" he said. "I ummm, I guess I'll see you again sometime. Soon. I hope."

Draco cocked his head slightly with an uncertain expression on his face and Charlie felt like an idiot.

"I mean..." Dammit, why was this so hard? What was the appropriate thing to say? He didn't want to come off as desperate or creepy, nor did he want to seem overly indifferent. It suddenly occurred to Charlie that had been a long time since he'd asked anyone out on a date. With the blokes he usually slept with (no matter whether they were muggles or wizards) things were easy: you got drunk, had sex – and that's it. The following morning you had some breakfast together, maybe a shower – sometimes even neither of the two – and then either you or him would leave with a semi-polite 'thank you, that was nice'.

Sometimes it was different though. There were mornings when the other guy would ask Charlie if he could see him again, and generally, Charlie would comply. After all, he had nothing to lose. Sadly, those 'real dates' never were successful. Not once had he met someone he genuinely liked. The other guy was either annoyingly sweet and friendly or a complete bore – sometimes even both.

But with Draco, it was different. Charlie sincerely wanted to see him again, but he had no idea how to go about it. Hell, he didn't even know if Draco felt the same, though somehow he suspected the blonde did. Last night, Draco had made it painstakingly clear that most people don't react well to the whole Death Eater thing, so Charlie guessed things weren't going very well for him in the dating department – or any other social department for that matter.

Charlie could sympathize with that, though if he was completely honest to himself, he had to admit he wasn't sure how he would've reacted if he'd known from the start that David Faith was in fact Draco Malfoy. One thing was certain: he would not have treated Draco Malfoy like he'd treated David, and Charlie felt somewhat bad about it, even though it was just a hypothetical situation.

Charlie finally found his Gryffindor courage. "I have to stay on the property the next three days, but Sunday we could, you know, grab some dinner together in Greenbury."

The tiniest of smiles appeared on Draco's lips and his silver eyes lit up. "Sure, I would like that."

Charlie felt something akin to butterflies in his stomach. "Great. Shall we meet at The Green Dragon at seven o' clock? It's a small restaurant at the end of Wickenmarket."

"Yeah I'm familiar with the place. Should have known you'd pick that one; you really are obsessed with dragons, aren't you?"

Charlie laughed. "I'm not going to deny that. They're simply irresistible." He remembered the meaning of Draco's name and felt his cheeks heat up.

Judging by the look on Draco's face the blonde's mind had made the same connection. Charlie ran a hand through his hair embarrassedly and Draco cleared his throat.

"I should be going, or you're going to be late for work," he said.

Charlie froze. He quickly looked on his watch and saw that he already was late. Again.

_Skyler is going to kill me. _

"Fuck! I have to go!"

He ran outside, cursed when he realized he hadn't said goodbye to Draco, quickly went back inside and kissed the blonde on the mouth.

"See you Sunday," he whispered against his lips, before he left again, leaving a bewildered looking Draco behind in his tent.

_**- TBC -**_

**_D'awww aren't they cute? But what's going on with poor George?_**


	5. Chapter 5

Thanks for all the reviews, and sorry for the delay… real life got in the way, as well as a new series I just had to watch all the episodes of in the shortest amount of time possible. On the bright side: this chapter is long and a new pov is introduced, as well as a new character.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything except my genius OC's. _**  
**_

* * *

_**Chapter 5**_

In his Hogwarts days, Charlie used to be a regular guest at the hospital wing. The cause of his injury was usually a quidditch- related accident, or a playful duel with another student that had gotten out of hand. One time he'd had a little misunderstanding with the Whimping Willow that resulted in a broken arm for Charlie and an unharmed and very smug willow. Also, Charlie had never been much of a talent with potions, so there had been some exploding cauldrons and other nasty things like that. And of course there was that one time Charlie had gotten it into his head that surfing down the stairs in the East tower on an enchanted tapestry was a good idea. Even now, Charlie could still vividly recall the howlers his mother had sent him. It had not been pretty – both the howlers and Charlie's face after the surfing stunt.

Needless to say, Charlie was a man with a lot of scars – the majority of them being work-related burn scars. Relatively superficial burns could be healed without scarring if treated quickly, but the more severe burnings never really faded, though there were potions to insure that the scarring would be as neat as possible. The scars on Charlie's body, which were mostly on his arms, were not more than jagged color differences in his skin, only visible from close distance. Charlie didn't even want to think about what he'd look like without healing magic.

It had been a while since he'd gotten to add a new scar to his long, long list. He was not a restless teenager any more, nor an overly enthusiastic and inexperienced dragon tamer trainee, but an adult and a professional with a lot of common sense, experience and impeccable instincts. Today, however, it seemed that his instincts had suffered a momentarily setback.

"Man up and hold still," Skyler said as she pressed the potion-drenched cotton against the wound on his shoulder.

Charlie hissed in pain. No matter how many times he felt this, he would never get used to it. Burn wounds were extremely painful; the wound was throbbing and the potion stung like thousandths of tiny needles.

"This is entirely your own fault you know," Skyler said. She was a tall and lanky woman, not beautiful by any standard but with strong lines in her face Charlie could appreciate and short, sandy blonde hair and lots of piercings in her ears.

Skyler Devins was Charlie's boss and one of the top draconologists in the world. When Charlie first started as a dragon tamer, young and clueless, Skyler was the one who took him under her wing, until she left Romania to travel through Asia and study the dragons there. Charlie didn't see her for years, and both of them weren't the type for long distance communication. The friendship was unexpectedly renewed when they ran into each other at a convention in Peru three years ago. They had talked for hours, and Skyler had shared her plans to start a reserve in Britain. But with Voldemort back in power the timing wasn't ideal. After the defeat of Voldemort, however, all options were open again. Charlie contacted Skyler to see if the plan was still up and the rest was history.

"You should have noticed she was stirring," Skyler said in a reprimanding tone.

"I know," Charlie muttered, dissatisfied with himself. He had gotten burnt while he, Skyler, Frank and Maxwell were transporting a supposedly sleeping pregnant Hebridean Black to the Research Centre for examination. The best way to transport a grown dragon was to feed it a cadaver treated with sleeping draught (a special formula strong enough for dragons – even one drop would be fatal to most other creatures), shackle them with magically enforced chains and levitate them into a cage. It was a routine operation that usually went by without trouble. Tonight, however, somebody – probably Frank, the moron – messed up the dose of sleeping draught, which caused the dragon to wake up when they tried to levitate her into the cage.

The dragon had not been a happy camper, as was to be expected. Dragons did not care much for shackles.

The others had backed off immediately when they noticed the Hebridean Black waking up. Charlie, on the other hand, had been distracted and therefore didn't react quickly enough, resulting in a nasty burn on his shoulder. Of course it could have been way worse, but it still was a stupid mistake – one a rooky like Frank would make, not him. It was embarrassing.

What was even more embarrassing was the reason he'd been so thoroughly distracted.

Skyler rummaged through one of the white cabinets against the wall. They were in the emergency room of the Research Centre – a place that smelled strongly of burnt flesh and cleaning fluids.

"Here it is," Skyler said. "One bottle of anti-pain. Extreme drowsiness and numb libs guaranteed, but also absolutely no pain whatsoever. Catch," she said as she threw the bottle in his direction.

Charlie caught it with seeker reflexes and unscrewed the cap. He emptied the bottle and shuddered briefly as the thick, cold fluid slid through his throat and settled his stomach. He felt the effects immediately: the soaring pain died away and his whole body began to feel heavy. He sat down on the edge of one of the three hospital beds in the room.

Skyler plopped down next to him. "So tell me," she said. "What's on your mind?"

Charlie blinked, caught off guard. "Nothing," he said, a few seconds too late to be believable.

"Liar," Skylar said. "I know you, Charlie, and you've been absent all day. Something's on your mind."

Charlie opened his mouth to protest but didn't get the chance to when Skyler continued: "And you keep having this loopy grin on your face you only have when something particularly good happened."

"It's really none of your business –" Skyler put her hand over his mouth before he could finish his sentence.

"On top of that," she added. "You came in very late, which is not all that uncommon but normally you don't apologize this much. All of which leads me to conclude that you are hiding something. Out with it." She poked a finger against his chest.

Yeah right. Like he was ever going to tell her he'd been this distracted today because every little thing reminded him of a certain blonde ex-Death Eater he'd spend the night with.

"I don't have to tell you anything, _boss._ We are professionals: my private life is none of your concern."

Skyler snorted. "Professionals, ha! Only when it suits you. But you are right about one thing: I am your boss and therefore I have the authority to demand you to tell me what's going on."

"No you haven't," Charlie retorted. "My private business are my private business. They don't have anything to do with my job."

"You got burned during work hours because of those private business, so they _do_ affect your job and are therefore my concern. Besides," she said. "You are my friend."

She took hold of his hand and looked at him with serious face Charlie did not at all take seriously – he knew Skyler and her antics. "I consider you one of my closest friends, if not _the _closest. You probably know me better than my own mother!" she said in an overly dramatic voice. "There's nothing I wouldn't tell you. Surely you would do me the same courtesy, right?" She gave him puppy eyes.

Charlie sighed. Even though she was well in her thirties, Skyler was a big child sometimes – a child with a very loud mouth, no morals and serious mental problems.

"Alright, alright, I yield." He held up his hands and bowed his head in defeat. "My mind was elsewhere today because of this guy I met."

Skyler grinned and wiggled her eyebrows. "Oh, so it's a bloke that's keeping your thoughts hostage. I should have known. You animal." She punched him against his non-wounded arm rather hard.

Charlie rubbed the painful spot. It was definitely going to bruise. Skylar punched like a man. "And then you call me an animal…" he muttered.

Skyler laughed. "Why didn't you just tell me, you twat. I told you everything about Julia."

"Hey, I did not want to know anything about Julia. Especially not the dirty details." Which were forced upon him anyway. Skyler knew no shame.

"Semantics. You know I want to be kept informed about your boyfriends. And also do not hesitate to come to me for relationship advice."

There were so many things wrong with that statement Charlie barely knew where to begin. "Okay, firstly: he is not my boyfriend. I've seen him two times for Merlin's sake. And you've never been in a relationship with anyone for more than six months so I don't think you're in a position to give relationship advice – and by that I mean _good _advice."

Skyler gasped for air and pressed her hand against her chest in mock-hurt. "Ouch! When did you get so mean? Sexual frustration much?"

"On the contrary." Now it was Charlie's turn to wiggle his eyebrows.

Skyler's mouth fell open. "You really _are _an animal."

"Learned from the best." Charlie peeled the cotton of his wound and frowned. It didn't look as good as he'd hoped.

"You should leave it on for a few hours – and don't move around too much." Skyler prepared a fresh cotton and taped it to his arm with Spellotape. "You know, why don't you take the day off tomorrow? Get some sleep and pay a visit to your boytoy."

"Don't call him that," Charlie said, but he was grateful for the free day. Usually he only had Sundays off. Holidays were rare in his profession. After all, dragons didn't do holidays.

Skyler snickered. "Alright, I'll just call him your bloke then. No need to get your panties in a twist. So how did you meet him? What does he do? Is he hot? How old is he?"

"He came to visit the reserve." Charlie decided that a bit of bending the truth was in order what that issue concerned. "And I have no fucking clue what he does actually," he admitted with a frown. What _does _the heir of a family like the Malfoys do, except lounge around in their Mansion, counting gold and eating elegant dishes with French names? "He is very hot and… umm, he's twenty-one years old."

It sounded pretty young when he said it out loud.

"That's seven years younger than you!" Skyler cried, more amused than shocked. "Did I mention you're an animal yet?"

"Yes you did," Charlie said. "And no matter how much I enjoy playing twenty questions with you, I am wounded –"

"Pussy," Skyler muttered.

"– and wasn't there a pregnant dragon that needed to be examined?" Charlie continued.

"Meh," Skyler shrugged. "She escaped, with shackles and all, and I doubt Maxwell and Frank have found her yet. We better try it again some other time, when she has calmed down. Nevertheless, I should go and check if those two idiots aren't burnt to crisps."

She collected a bunch of cottons, some Spellotape, a few extra bottles of anti-pain and burn-healing potion and thrust them into Charlie's hands. "Change the cotton every two hours. And don't cock it up with your new bloke."

Charlie rolled his eyes. "Yes mum."

Skyler apparated with a wink and Charlie shook his head with a smile. Crazy woman. It was nice of her to give him a day off though. He could use it. His upper arm and shoulder felt stiff and feverish, and the anti-pain had made him tired. His body was acing for a nice long sleep.

But first: a smoke. He'd deserved that much.

Charlie dumped the cottons, bottles and tape on the bed and pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. It was prohibited to smoke in the emergency room, but it smelled so badly of burned flesh here Charlie highly doubted anyone would notice.

He lit a cigarette with his wand and inhaled the smoke deeply. Outside he could hear morning birds sing. Skyler's advice rang in his mind.

"_Get some sleep and pay a visit to your boytoy."_

Would Draco appreciate a surprise visit? Or would that be too bold a move from Charlie's part? But Charlie was a bold person and he really did want to see Draco… The only problem was that he didn't exactly know where Malfoy Manor was, though he recalled having seen pictures of it in the papers. But surely it wouldn't be all that hard to find a house as big as Malfoy Manor? Right?

* * *

When Narcissa entered the library, an odd sight awaited her: Draco was looking for a book on the shelves, and he was _humming_. Narcissa couldn't remember the last time she'd seen her son hum since Lucius died. Even before everything that had happened the last few years, before all the loss and the darkness and the shame, when Draco was still a child and their little family whole, he rarely ever hummed. He was a vibrant child who preferred to communicate his emotions in more conspicuous ways – running around laughing and shouting when happy, crying for hours when sad, throwing objects when angry, and pouting and sulking when he didn't get his way – all much to his father's annoyance. It had taken Lucius ages to teach Draco proper Malfoy composure, and even now Draco was far from the ice statue the head of the Malfoy family was supposed to be, though he was getting better and better at it.

Lucius had always blamed Draco's un-Malfoyness on the unpredictable Black blood, while Narcissa was of the opinion that it was Lucius' own fault for not being at home often enough. Lucius in his turn thought that Narcissa spoiled their son – an argument Narcissa always countered by reminding Lucius of all the times he had given in to Draco's whims. Not that she regretted the way she'd raised her son. She loved him for all his virtues and flaws and wouldn't want him to be any other way. And she was certain that deep inside, Lucius had felt the same way.

The war and Azkaban had changed Draco though, just as it had changed her. He had grown more thoughtful, quieter, and less demanding. He had lost a lot of illusions – they both had, though Narcissa knew some of her oldest believes were still right – and had learned the value of caution and relativism. Other values he'd learned were those of grace and composure, especially before the eyes of those who'd rather see him rot in prison. Malfoys should always keep their head high and their eyes cold, because then, nobody could hurt them.

Though Narcissa mourned her son's loss of innocence, the chances he had forcedly gone through were for the greatest part good things – the only good that had come from the war. _No_, she corrected herself, _that isn't entirely true_. Voldemort was dead; that was also a very good thing. And they were still alive.

Narcissa thought she'd never quite appreciated life the way she did now. She could immensely enjoy the feeling of sunshine on her skin, the warm, sweet taste of sugared tea and the softness of her most precious gowns and the way the skirts brushed against her bare legs as she walked. All those sensations were so powerful and so incredibly delightful Narcissa thought her heart would burst.

But nothing could compare to the feeling she got when she saw her son like this – humming some melody she didn't recognize with a faint but wholehearted smile on his lips, so peaceful and light and happy.

There was nothing and no-one in the world she loved as much as her son.

"Oh Draco, my sweetheart," she said, not knowing quite what more to say.

Draco pulled the book he'd been looking for from the shelf and looked over his shoulder at his mother, slightly startled. He had been so emerged in his search he hadn't noticed her entering.

"Mother… Did you want a book?" he asked.

Narcissa blinked. Did she want a book? She didn't think she did, but couldn't think of any other reason she'd be in the library.

Narcissa frowned as confusion slowly but oh so steadily crept on her. It was a familiar sensation, and it felt as if there was a butterfly fluttering in her head. Sometimes it sat down, and then her thoughts would be clear as the water in the fountains in the garden, but sooner or later it started fluttering again and her head went all fuzzy and complicated.

"Mother?" Draco asked, a look of concern on his handsome face. Narcissa didn't like it; he should be smiling. It was all the butterfly's fault – the butterfly with the black wings.

"It's nothing, sweetness, I just have to catch a butterfly." She pressed her hand against her forehead, practically feeling the creature move against her skull.

Draco gently put his hand on her shoulder. "Does your head hurt?"

"No, no, it's nothing. Just a butterfly. I'm sure your father knows how to get rid of it."

An expression of understanding and pain flashed on her son's face and Narcissa knew she'd said something wrong, but couldn't put her finger on what it was exactly.

"I have to go find him," she said. "He's probably in his study."

No, that was not right. She knew that was not right.

"Or… is he not there? Draco?" She looked at her son, who smiled reassuringly, though it didn't reach his eyes.

"He's not here now, but he'll return soon."

That was not true either. The fluttering in her head became more urgent, more irritating, and a dull pain started to throb behind her eyes.

Without her realizing it, Draco had led her to the sofa. Narcissa leaned back into the cushions, closed her eyes and imagined a butterfly burning. She had to get her thoughts together. What day was it? It was summer, it was… morning? afternoon?, and Draco was here instead of at Hogwarts so it was the summer holidays, and there was no dark presence in the house so Voldemort wasn't here yet… no, not here anymore…

Images appeared before her mind's eye, of a rocky beach underneath a blood-red sunset, and a bony jaw with a crusty, grey skin and a hungry mouth that sucked the life out of her husband…

Then there were flashing cameras, and shouting, and a strong arm around her shoulders pulling her through…

_Mrs. Malfoy, how do feel? How did Azkaban treat you? Filthy Death Eater whore! Do you feel like you got off easy? Go back to where you came from! What are your plans for the future? _

She remembered Draco lying beside her in bed, his head against her chest while she stroked his hair and murmured soothing words…

The butterfly burned to a crisp and its ashes whirled down to the farthest corners of her mind. But it was not gone; Narcissa knew it would rise again like her own personal little phoenix, blinding her and confusing her.

But not yet, her head was completely clear now, and along with it came the realization that she was mad. Not mad like her sister Bella had been, but mad in her own, fuzzy little way. It hurt when that realization dawned on her, it hurt like it always hurt and she knew it would never be less painful, but the pain was soon followed by resignation, because in a strange way oblivion was a blessing as well as a curse. Like when she was stuck in a different, happier time, or when she was in the present, fully aware of what had been and what was now, but not yet aware of the butterfly. In a way, illusionary sanity was better than the real thing.

It was shameful though. She was a dark, pureblooded witch, proud and admirable, and to have her own mind slipping from her control… it was pitiful. But then, there was no-one to see her shame, was there? Only Draco, and she had nothing to hide from him, not after everything they'd gone through together.

Draco was here with her, and they were still alive, and that was the most important thing.

"I'm sorry, Draco," she whispered as she cupped his cheek. She was too young to be a burden, and he was too young to carry it all alone. It wasn't supposed to be this way.

Draco gave her an odd look. "Don't be," he said. "It's not your fault. I'll let Marianne fetch you your medicine; it's almost time for your next dose. You'll feel better afterwards."

Narcissa nodded. The medicine would chase away the pain behind her eyes, and would help her keep the butterfly at bay.

"Thank you, my son."

* * *

Draco sat down behind his desk and shook the hair out of his face. He had left his mother in Marianne's care, so he knew he didn't need to worry about her. Still, his thoughts kept drifting to her. He knew some people would have thought it better if he'd brought her to St. Mungo's. But Draco would never, ever do that. She belonged here, in Malfoy manor, not tucked away in a hospital like some madwoman.

Narcissa was not crazy, she was just confused. Her condition was odd but not uncommon. He had done a lot of research on diseases of the mind, and had discovered that traumatizing experiences as well as long periods of stress or torture could damage the human mind in ways that could lead to conditions like his mother's.

There were a lot of times her mind was clear. Sometimes she even talked to him about her condition. She had stressed that she'd rather die than go to St. Mungo's. It was a humiliation she didn't wish to endure, and after Azkaban she couldn't bear the thought of being locked in a room ever again. Draco could understand that all too well.

Draco forced himself to get to work. He reached for the pile of letters on the edge of his desk and skimmed through the contents. They were hum-drum financial records, a long but unimportant letter from his accountant McGrath, and a particularly rude complaining letter from Alcott Honeykettle about D'Ancelet. Of course there was also his daily dose of hate-mail, which he cremated with a sigh and a flick of his wand.

Draco started with the letter from Honeykettle, who apparently (and somewhat understandably) was very displeased D'Ancelet had fired him in the context of 'reorganization'. The disgruntled man was threatening to take the case to court, which could potentially be problematic for D'Ancelet, but would mostly have consequences for Draco, who Honeykettle accused of having provided him 'both incomplete and inaccurate information', since Draco was the one who had sold Honeykettle industries (a company Lucius had bought before the second war started and messed up the business) to D'Ancelet.

Draco let his head fall against the desk and groaned into the wood. Why oh why did Honeykettle have to blame him for this mess? It wasn't his fault D'Ancelet was a slimy bastard with a solicitor that had a talent for setting up misleading contracts.

Merlin, he could use a drink. Nevermind that it was barely three o' clock.

Draco jolted upright when he felt an odd, tingling sensation travelling up and down his spine. Alarm bells rang in his mind. Somebody was approaching the wards of the manor.

* * *

"Thank you and goodbye," George said to the costumer. It was a kid who couldn't be more than twelve years old, and had bought a box of Creepy Crawlies and Canary Creams.

The bell tingled as the door fell close behind the kid. The tingling died away and it was once again silent in the shop, save for the ticking of the huge, brightly coloured clock on the wall behind the pay desk, and the humming of his stock boy, Jimmy.

George missed the chirping sounds of the Pygme Puffs, who had all fallen ill from a mysterious disease. They had died one by one, in spite of all George's attempts to cure them.

George brushed some dust from his magenta robe. The clock struck three and chimes that sounded like laughter echoed through the shop. He sighed and wished time would go faster.

Perhaps it was a good idea to take a break.

George leaned with his elbows on the pay desk and watched the passers-by through the shop windows. Every now and then one or two people lingered in front of Weasleys Wizard Wheezes, but they rarely went inside. The sales of the shop had been falling steadily for almost two years now. It was a slow process, not more than a few tenth of a percent per month, but if it would continue like this George would be in serious trouble sooner or later.

The frustrating thing was that George knew exactly why the popularity of Wizard Wheezes, once _the _most successful shop in Diagon Alley, was dwindling. It was because there were no new products.

In the first weeks after the war, the lack of new products hadn't been a problem. The dark shadow that Voldemort had cast over the country was gone and the entire wizarding world had been living in a euphoric rush, drunk on the long awaited freedom and peace. Many people had lost friends or family in the war, but that didn't stop them from wanting to celebrate – and the products of Weasleys Wizard Wheezes could help them with that.

It had been hectic weeks for George, weeks in which the demands for fireworks, joke products and sweets were so high that he kept running out of stocks. He had found himself forced to hire a lot of new employees, because he and Verity, his assistant, just couldn't handle things on their own – not even with the occasional support of Ginny, Ron and sometimes even Harry. And even with all those helping hands, George had been busier than he'd ever been in his life. There had been no time to properly mourn Fred, no time to relax or party, no time to do anything but attend to the shop.

Both thankfully and sadly, it didn't last. As the weeks passed by, the euphoria of Voldemort's defeat subdued – and the sales of the shop along with it. Realism took over the reins of mindless celebration and people returned to their normal pace of life, though things never went back to the way they were before Voldemort. It turned out that even though the war was over, some problems it had caused continued to live. And those problems in their turn caused entirely new problems. Families had been ripped apart, either by death or the stress of living in constant fear, and a lot of people had lost their job. Businesses had gone bankrupt, houses had been destroyed, treasures had been stolen. Cries for political renewal emerged, from magical creatures and wizards alike. People quickly grew cautious about how they spend their gold.

The past few months, the economy had grown and people had started spending more galleons again, but at the same time a lot of new shops had opened in Diagon Alley, so the competition had risen. The sales of Wizard Wheezes especially suffered from Firecrackers, a shop that sold Eastern European firework; Honeydukes Number Two, an almost exact copy of the shop in Hogsmeade, only bigger; and Witchy Wonders, a shop specialized in products for witches, like make-up, jewelry and all sorts of potions and cute things.

Ron and Ginny said George needed to invent new products.

His parents said that George needed to find a new partner.

Bill and Charlie said George needed to take a break from the shop.

George did not want to do any of those things. _Nobody _could replace Fred. The thought alone of finding another business partner made George sick in ways he couldn't express in words. Everybody who dared to make a suggestion like that quickly shut up when they saw his face.

The only thing that George loathed even more was the thought of closing or selling the shop. Wizard Wheezes had always been his and Fred's pride and joy. Now, it was even more. It was George's _life. _Here he felt more in contact with his lost twin than anywhere else in the world. Every product on the shelves, every square centimeter of the room, held memories – memories that were too precious to George to give up. He would never sell the shop and forsake those memories.

So that left only one option: he had to invent new products. But the problem was that he couldn't. It just wasn't possible. Oh he'd tried, Merlin knew he'd tried, but there was some kind of blockade in his head; a barrier that was obstructing his creativity.

He did not know how to break the barrier.

George rubbed his eyes. He opened a drawer and pulled out a Gryffindor-red notebook. In this notebook he and Fred used to scribble down new ideas for products. Now it was his alone.

George conjured a quill and opened the notebook on a blank page. He pressed the tip of the quill against the paper – and stared.

Minutes passed by. George kept staring at the page, his hand trembling lightly and his thoughts going fast. But it was forced. It didn't used to be like this; his thoughts used to be like falling rain, like waterfalls and streams, always going on and on without retrain and without limitations. Every shape was possible, every turn.

Now his thoughts were like a muggle machine. They didn't just come; they needed to be forced to move. He needed to push them forward. It was beyond tiring.

George slammed the notebook close and cursed.

"Sir?" Jimmy asked hesitantly.

George forced the corners of his mouth upwards. "It's nothing, Jimmy, go back to work. I'm going to take a break. I'll be back in half an hour. If there's any problem, call for Verity."

The boy nodded and went back to cleaning the shelves.

George climbed the steep, narrow wooden stairs that led to his office. There, he lay down on the floor and watched the dust dance in the sunlight.

_There's so much dust here, _George thought. _I should clean up._

But not today.

"Accio cough syrup," he said lazily. A small flask flew into his open hand. He drank the content and breathed out deeply as a wave of feather-light contentment came over him. It was if a breeze blew through his mind, sending all his thoughts in distant directions.

And then – there was nothing. Only his relaxed breathing and the gentle beat of his heart. There was no fear, no anger, no despair and no regret. The emptiness was still there, but it didn't feel as if there was a piece of his heart missing any more. There was only emptiness, serene and delightful. There was nothing missing, because there _couldn't_ be anything missing.

And George couldn't be happier.

_**- TBC-**_

**_Reviews will be welcomed with hot chocolate, apple pie and serpentine._**


	6. Chapter 6

Thanks for all the fav's, follows and reviews, beloved readers. And apologies for the late update… somehow this chapter was very difficult for me to write. Also I just started playing Skyrim. I rest my case.

Disclaimer: same old same old.

* * *

_**Chapter 6**_

_Surely it wouldn't be all that hard to find a house as big as Malfoy Manor? Right?_

Charlie remembered thinking these words. He couldn't have been more wrong.

He stood still, wiped the sweat off his forehead and looked around. At his left were trees, at his right were trees, behind him was a path that disappeared into the trees, and in front of him were… more trees. And he had no idea if he was even going in the right direction. In other words: it appeared he was lost.

Well damn.

He knew Malfoy Manor had to be somewhere around here. These lands, south of the Dragon Reserve, and north of a tiny wizarding village called Holtby, all belonged to the Malfoy family.

Holtby was the place Charlie had apparated to. It wasn't so much a village as it was a street, flanked by a colorful collection of old houses that were literally being held upright by magic. The people of Holtby went to Greenbury or another nearby town for errands, but the town did have a small pub and something that, with a little bit of imagination, could be called a marketplace. When Charlie apparated there, there was no market though – only a couple of kids playing with a scratched and obviously well-used Fanged Flyer from Weasley's Wizard Wheezes. Charlie nearly got his head cut off by the bloody thing.

There was an old man sitting on a low stone wall, watching the kids with a crooked smile on his face whilst smoking a pipe. He seemed like the kind of person who had lived in this village all his life. Charlie reckoned this man knew everything and everyone in and around Holtby, including the way to Malfoy Manor. But when Charlie asked him if he knew how to get to the mansion, the elder man just laughed.

"I wish yer good luck with tha', lad," the man said. "No gettin' in there if yer not wanted. Tha' is, if ya find it at all. If I were ya, I'd stay far away from there. Those folks are a right bad lot. On the wrong side in the war n'all. Nothin' good has ever come from tha' place."

"I think I'll be alright," Charlie said with a slight smile.

The old man took him in with a calculating and somewhat suspicious expression on his wrinkled face. "Well, it's yer funeral, not mine."

He pointed his pipe towards a dirt road that coiled through the open grassland into the woods.

"If ya follow tha' path ya'll get in the right direction. Tha's all I know. Never had business comin' any closer to tha' hellhole."

After properly thanking the man and wishing him a nice day, Charlie had taken the dirt road into the woods. The path had many sharp turns and forks, and looked as if it hadn't been used in ages. Charlie walked on instinct, trying to avoid walking in circles. Judging by the position of the sun, he had managed that much, but he had no clue how far or close to the Manor he was. For all he knew he had walked right past it miles ago.

Charlie wasn't an easy quitter, but he was starting to get the feeling it had been a bad idea to come here. He wanted to see Draco, but he was also thirsty and apparating back home was starting to look more and more appealing in comparison to wandering around through the woods in search of a place he probably wouldn't find anytime soon.

Although…

Charlie stopped when he caught a glimpse of something shimmering behind the trees. Metal reflecting the sun? He left the path and made his way through high bushes, until he reached another path that led to… the biggest house he'd ever seen.

"Wow," he muttered, his mouth slightly open and his eyebrows high. He knew the Malfoys were rich, but this was _ridiculous_. Malfoy Manor was not a house but a freaking _castle_. It was immense; built in a Gothic style, with two huge, identical wings; high, thin windows with white wooden sills; and pointed towers. It was build out of grey and reddish-brown stones. It could have been looming, with the stone ornaments and heavy shapes and colours, but it wasn't. The sun was low in the sky, burning lazily, the grass was as green as it gets and below the windows flowers were blooming in red, purple and pink, making the manor look like something out of a fairytale. It was beautiful, probably one of the most beautiful buildings Charlie had ever seen – and that was saying quite a lot, considering Charlie was a man well-travelled.

Feeling slightly overwhelmed, Charlie walked towards the huge cast iron gate. The Manor was surrounded by a high brick wall, and protected by bloodwards. Charlie could feel the press of ancient magic in the air. The gate was held close by two winged, iron serpents that ware coiled around the Malfoy family crest.

Alright, what to do now? The gate was closed and it didn't look like it was going to open anytime soon. Charlie figured he'd better not touch anything, just in case he'd be struck down by a lightning bolt if he did.

_I have not thought this trough.  
_  
And he was bloody thirsty, so that didn't make things better.

Just when he was considering the pros and cons of shouting Draco's name – a lot of cons and very little pros –, the iron serpents moved and the gates swung open. Charlie blinked. That was unexpected, but fortuned nonetheless. Always nice when problems solved themselves.

He walked through the gate and made his way to the entrance steps. The door knocker was another serpent. He knocked two times and a sour-looking woman opened the door.

"Please follow me, sir," she said stiffly.

He followed the stately elderly woman, whom Charlie guessed was some sort of maid judging by her plain black robes and white apron, through a wide hall to a relatively small, light sitting room. The large windows were open, their blue veil curtains softly moving in the wind, providing a striking view of the immense garden. If Charlie's eyes weren't mistaking him he even caught a glimpse of a white peacock.

It was odd to realize Voldemort had once been one of the inhabitants of this beautiful manor; a place filled with light and colours and golden hues. Perhaps he had even been in the very room Charlie was in now. He could have sat in front of the fireplace with his snake draped over his shoulder. Death Eaters could have tortured a muggle in a dungeon right below Charlie's feet.

Charlie knew he should have felt more unnerved about it all than he did. But Voldemort and the Death Eaters were not here anymore, it was just a mansion; old, lonely and beautiful and nothing to fear. The only things that lived here now were Draco and the haunting memories only he could see.

Charlie found himself wondering how Draco could live here at all, after all the horrors that had transpired here.

The voice of Draco's maid brought Charlie back to the here and now.

"If you would be so kind as to wait here, sir, Lord Malfoy will be joining us soon. Can I get you something to drink?"

"Tea would be nice, thank you," Charlie said.

The woman nodded with pursed lips (Charlie was starting to believe the muscles in her face were incapable of smiling) and took her leave. Charlie was surprised Draco had a maid instead of house elves. Though now he thought about it, it could be that the ministry had sized the elves. House elves were rare and procreated scarcely. The Malfoy's elves were probably taken together with the magical artifacts when the aurors raided the place. Not a chance in hell the ministry would let such an opportunity pass.

The door opened and Draco came in, looking impeccable as always with black trousers, a grey button-down shirt (Charlie didn't think Draco even owned t-shirts) and his half-long hair straight and loose. His facial expression betrayed no surprise at Charlie's sudden appearance in his house.

Draco smiled the gracious smile of an experienced host. "Charlie," he said. "Fancy seeing you here."

"I had nothing to do today," Charlie said casually, as if he hadn't apparated all the way to Holtby and wandered through the forest for Merlin knows how long to get here.

"My boss gave me a day off," he added and he subconsciously rubbed the still-sore burn on his upper arm.

"Oh, I see," Draco said.

Charlie repressed the urge to squirm like an insecure schoolgirl who had just confessed her crush to the most popular boy in school – which was a ridiculous way to feel, since Draco was hardly popular nowadays. And Charlie did not like to think of himself as a school girl, nor any other kind of girl for that matter. Being gay did not equal being girly, dammit, no matter what some people thought. The first thing Ron had said when Charlie came out was: "but you aren't girly."

On a brighter note, it seemed Draco too wasn't as confident as he initially seemed to be. His smile had a nervous edge and he was playing with his ring, visibly searching for words.

"Well, erm… sit down," Draco said and he gestured towards the sofa's in front of the white marble fireplace. There were two of them, as well as two armchairs, matching the elegant blue-crème-and-golden color scheme of the room.

Charlie sat down on one of the sofas and Draco sat down next to him, just as the maid brought in a tray with tea and cookies.

"Thanks, Marianne," Draco said, as the maid named Marianne poured two cups of tea.

Marianne left with a nod and Charlie took a sip from his tea. Draco did the same, after having added a few generous spoons of sugar. Charlie smiled; it seemed Draco had a sweet tooth.

"So… no dragon business today?" Draco asked over the rim of his teacup.

"Nah. I got a little burn on my arm yesterday night so my boss practically forced me to take a day off and give my arm some rest."

"You got burned?" Draco looked disturbed, as if full comprehension of risks of taming dragons had just dawned on him.

"A _little _burn," Charlie emphasized. "Nothing serious. So, erm… do you have anything to do today?" he asked, eager for a change of topic. He did not fancy explaining Draco exactly how and why he got burned.

"Not really. I have some letters to write, but that can wait."

"Letters?" Charlie asked curiously.

"Just boring business-stuff." Draco gave a dismissive wave with his hand. "Some arsehole is threatening to sue my company, but it's sure to come right in the end. Even if he's going to persist, I literally have an entire army of lawyers at my disposition. Not all my father's legacies are troublesome… in fact some of them can be very effective when one's trying to get rid of certain problems," Draco said with a smug smile.

Huh, who would have thought that? Draco was a business man.

"Wow," Charlie said. "That sounds… absolutely awful."

He wasn't kidding. Draco's job sounded about as boring as Percy's. No, wait – that was not possible. Percy's job as a ministry official at the Department of Logistics, Wizarding Resources and Other Internal Affairs was so high on the ladder of awful no job in the world could possibly compare.

Draco chuckled softly. "Trust me, those were my thoughts exactly when I was still in Hogwards, no matter how much I liked to brag to the other Slytherins about the million-galleons company I was going to inherit."

Charlie smiled. It seemed Draco had been every bit the stuck-up prick Ron used to describe.

"But all in all…" Draco continued. "It's not that bad. And I can decide exactly when and how I conduct my business, since I'm the boss."

"And you can order people around."

Draco grinned. "That, too, is a plus."

Outside a peacock screamed and Draco winced. "I hate those bloody birds," he muttered.

"Why don't you just set them free?" Charlie asked, though on second thought that was a slightly cruel suggestion, since the birds were white as snow and wouldn't survive long in the wild.

"My mother likes them," Draco said with a slightly sad smile.

Charlie had completely forgotten Narcissa Malfoy lived here as well. He found the realization comforting. The manor was so big; he could only imagine how lonely it would be to live here all alone. At least Draco had his mother. And of course there was Marianne, though the latter hardly seemed like enjoyable company.

"Would you like a tour around the house?" Draco suddenly asked.

"Yeah sure, that would be great," Charlie said, genuinely curious to see the rest of the estate.

Draco led him through wide, ancient halls, past tapestries and antique furniture; marble staircases and chandeliers; and portraits of Draco's ancestors that followed them with haughty eyes.

"This," Draco said as he opened a set of white wooden doors, "is the ballroom. Mother used to throw parties here."

Charlie gaped. The room was breathtaking, with green marble floors, a high, lavishly painted ceiling and many golden-framed mirrors against the walls that made the room seem even bigger.

It was no wonder Ron always said that Draco strutted around Hogwards like he owned it. Living in a place like this must make everybody feel like royalty. Hell, Charlie was beginning to feel that way himself. He had expected that a place like this would make him feel tiny, but the exact opposite was turning out to be true. There was so much space the Manor gave Charlie the feeling that he could do anything.

It had to be showing in his face, because Draco gifted him a smile that was filled with an almost child-like joy. "I'm really glad you like it so much. I have to admit I expected you to find the house…"

"Excessively extravagant? A waste of space and galleons? A prime example of high-society opulence gone mad?" Charlie suggested with a teasing smile.

Draco blushed, which was totally cute. Charlie resisted the sudden urge to reach out and touch Draco's face.

"I wouldn't have put it _that _way," the blonde said, "but yeah…"

"Understandable," Charlie said as he thought about what Ron would say if he ever set foot in the Manor. "I have to admit that most of my family members would have reacted that way, except maybe Bill and Fleur. But personally, I think it's great that places like this still exist. People don't build like this anymore, especially not in the muggle world."

Draco looked immensely pleased, and Charlie felt a twinge of satisfaction.

"Well, in that case," the blonde said, "shall I show you my favorite room in the house?"

"Your bedroom?" Charlie couldn't resist saying. If there had ever been any awkwardness between them it was gone now.

"Not yet," Draco said with a smile that promised a lot. He wrapped his arms around Charlie's waist and apparated them to a scarcely furnished chamber with a red theme.

"This," Draco said as he let go of Charlie, "is the music room."

The room had a high, slanted white ceiling and a dark wooden floor. The walls were bare; there were no portraits or tapestries, just classic, red and silver wall covering. Thick, velvet red curtains framed the thin, high windows and French doors opened to a spacious balcony. Judging from the view, they were on the second floor. At the right was a huge, soft looking burgundy sofa, a simple but elegant glass vase with white roses, a cello and a harp. In the center of the room stood a grand black piano.

"I used to spend a lot of time here when… things were rough," Draco said as walked towards the piano. He rested one hand on the smooth, glossed wooden surface, with a distant look on his face.

Charlie could only begin to imagine what Draco meant by 'rough' and inwardly shuddered. Even though he was curious, he decided against asking for elaboration and instead sought for words to distract the blonde from whatever painful memory was playing before his mind's eye. A thought occurred in Charlie's head and the question slipped out before he knew it – "Do you play?"

Draco looked up, a small tugging on the corner of his mouth. "Matter a fact I do. Incredibly well, if I may add."

Charlie smiled. Of course the bastard wasn't going to be humble about it. Draco had set some expectations though, and Charlie couldn't resist challenging him.

"Well then, maestro, play me something."

Draco smirked as he sat down graciously on the bench. He ran his fingers over the keys. "Any requests?"

Charlie did not know if Draco was consciously testing his musical knowledge, but either way he'd be in for a surprise. Charlie knew his classics.

"Chopin's Nocturne No. 20 in C minor."

It was a famous piece, known in the wizarding world and muggle world alike, though the muggles did not know Chopin had secretly been a wizard – one with large musical ambitions who wanted to gain fame outside the small confines of the wizarding world. Now it was Charlie's turn to test Draco, because if he truly played as well as he boasted, he should surely know how to play at least a part of this piece from memory.

If he hadn't been watching very closely Charlie would have certainly missed the surprise that crossed Draco's face for the briefest of moments. Then Draco's lips curled into a smile that said: challenge accepted. His fingers started moving, stroking the keys slow and gentle. The melody began, as perfect as Charlie had ever heard it.

As melody changed, Draco's movements changed along with it. He could do it all, every single emotion in the spectrum: tenderness, melancholy, hunger, passion, even joy. Charlie was captivated, complete and utterly captivated, not only by the music but also by the way Draco moved. He hands danced over the keys as if it was the only thing he lived to do. But it wasn't just his hands: his whole body moved in perfect sync to the melody, much like a true master of the instrument would. From time to time, his white-blonde bangs fell across his eyes but he barely seemed to notice it, completely emerged in his playing save for the occasional coil glance in Charlie's direction – glances that went straight to Charlie's groin.

Draco was purposely trying to seduce him, Charlie was very well aware of that, and _dammit _if it wasn't working. Charlie's brain felt numb and there was a tightness in his pants that felt entirely inappropriate in a chamber as old and stately as this music room.

And was that a smirk Charlie saw on Draco's face? The arrogant bastard! He knew just how affected Charlie was and he loved it.

Perhaps Charlie should teach him a lesson.

As the last notes of Chopin's masterpiece ghosted away, Draco smoothed into a new piece; one Charlie didn't recognize. The melody was slow, sensual even, and Charlie would bet his wand Draco had chosen this piece very _very _deliberately.

Charlie could work with this. With a faux-innocent expression his face he moved towards Draco until he was standing behind him. He lazily stroked Draco's back before sitting down on the bench next to him, his legs on opposite side of Draco's. The blonde looked at him with intense eyes for a moment, but did not stop playing. Then he looked away, his eyes on the keys as if Charlie wasn't sitting just a few inches away from him.

Charlie recognized a challenge when he saw one.

Charlie reached out with his right hand and caressed Draco's left cheek, trailing his touch all the way down the sharp line of his jaw and then his throat. Draco breath hitched, but he kept on playing, determined not to let Charlie win.

But it was a lost game, really, and they both knew it.

Charlie leaned in slowly, allowing his breath to grace the side of Draco's neck and delighting in the slight shiver that ran through the blonde's body. He slid his hand up the smoothness of Draco's throat and gently took hold of his chin, tipping his head back slightly.

He leaned over Draco and brushed his lips against the blonde's, but he did not kiss him – not yet. He just breathed, while Draco continued playing, though even to Charlie's relatively untrained ears the melody sounded strained.

Charlie nipped at Draco's bottom lip with his teeth, his hand on the blonde's jaw. Next he started trailing fleeting kisses along his jawline, and his previously unoccupied left hand moved to the small of Draco's back, sliding under his shirt and rubbing the warm skin there. Charlie let his mouth hover over Draco's again, their lips almost touching, and this time, Draco gave in. The blonde slammed his hands down on the keys in a musical equivalent of 'fuck it all' and kissed Charlie hungrily.

Charlie smirked against Draco's lips and straddled him. It was a bit awkward, on the small but thank Merlin solid piano bench, and the edge of the piano was probing in Charlie's lower back, but he really couldn't care less. All that mattered was Draco's sweet, fiery mouth and the strong hands on Charlie's tights.

But it could not continue like this – Charlie wanted more. And Draco shared that sentiment, if the eager hand that expertly drew down the zipper of his fly was anything to go by.

"I want to throw you onto the floor and fuck you until you see stars," Charlie groaned huskily in Draco's ear.

Draco cocked an eyebrow, his silver eyes twinkling with amusement. "I'm a Malfoy, Charlie, we don't do fucking on floors. We have king-size beds for that."

Charlie felt a sudden and uncomfortable tuck behind his navel, and before he knew he was lying on top of an enormous bed in an equally enormous bedroom. The sheets were a dark, deep green color and were so cool and soft they couldn't be anything less than pure silk.

Draco crawled on top of him, his wand in his hand. He murmured an incantation and his clothes disappeared, so that Charlie could see his body in all its glory. Draco's hair and skin glowed in the sunlight that was streaming freely through the windows, making him look like something that had just descended from heaven.

Draco dangled the wand in front of Charlie's nose. Charlie understood the hint; he took the wand and preformed the same incantation as Draco just had, so that they were both unclothed.

Charlie's hands kneaded Draco's tights as Draco slid his hands over Charlie's muscular chest, scratching the skin with his nails.

"You – are perfect," Draco purred and pressed their bodies together. The blonde sucked on Charlie's neck for a moment and then bit down, leaving a mark. Their lips joined together again in an open-mouthed kiss and Charlie felt his control slipping away. He had to have him – _now._

He took hold of Draco's hips and sat up, trying to change their position. Draco wouldn't have it though. The blonde put his hands on Charlie's shoulders and pushed him back down with surprising strength.

"No no, we're going to do this my way," Draco said with an almost feral grin, causing a hot, exited shiver to run through Charlie's body.

Draco accio'd a bottle of lotion. He kissed Charlie slow and sensual while he coated Charlie's already rock-hard cock with the lotion. It was pure bliss, and Charlie felt as if he was up somewhere high in the clouds, with only warm, devine softness surrounding him.

Then Draco's lips left his, and Charlie missed them instantly. The feeling of loss did not linger long though – Draco sat up, licked his pink, swollen lips while gazing at Charlie with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes, and sank down on top of him. Charlie gasped loudly. It was tight; so tight that he couldn't tell left from right anymore.

"Oh fuck, Dra –"

He didn't even get time to finish the last syllable of Draco's name because the blonde rolled his hips forward and pleasure shot struck Charlie's body like lightning, affecting every fiber of his body and leaving him unable to do anything but grip Draco's milky tights hard and surrender.

Draco pressed his eyes close and moaned open-mouthed when he found the rhythm that pleased him most. He was holding onto Charlie's shoulders to keep himself upright and his sweaty blonde strands were sticking to his face. He moved expertly, rolling his hips and clenching his muscles around Charlie's cock while he stroked his own.

Through it all Charlie briefly wondered where the hell Draco had learned how to do this – then he decided he did not want to know – and then there was too much pleasure to think anything anymore. He spilled deeply inside the blonde, crying out Draco's name, and vaguely registered something hot and sticky splattering all over his toned abdomen.

Charlie had a hard time coming back to himself. He couldn't do anything but lie there on the heavenly cool sheets, panting, with Draco still on top of him.

Draco pulled himself off of Charlie with a soft hiss of pain and lay down next to him; one arm draped across Charlie's chest and his cheek against his shoulder.

"Bleeding hell Draco, you're going to be the death of me…" Charlie said, still slightly out of breath, and he wrapped his arms around the blonde, needing to feel as much of him as he could.

Draco chuckled; it was a lazy, satisfied sound and Charlie didn't think he'd ever heard something so beautiful.

"I don't know about you, but I don't think there's any way I'd rather die," the blonde said.

"Yeah," Charlie breathed in agreement. His thoughts felt slurred and fuzzy and he couldn't think of anything clever, sexy or otherwise impressive to say. Instead of that he said: "I should come over more often."

"Hmmm…" Draco hummed as he gently traced the contours of Charlie's dragon tattoo with his index finger. "Perhaps you should."

A silence fell, warm and stirring with unspoken understanding and a silent agreement. Charlie moved his head so that he could kiss Draco, and it felt so natural and right Charlie knew that if somebody was to accuse him then and there of falling in love with Draco, he would agree with them. And he would be happy to do so.

_**- TBC -**_

**_Review pretty please? I'd love to know what you think of Draco and Charlie's dynamics; as well hear your expectations and wishes for the future…_**


	7. Chapter 7

New chapter, late as is becoming the norm. So actually it isn't late at all.

Thanks for all your fav's and reviews. It really makes me so happy to know people are actually reading this and liking it!

The surprise of today: Harry and Ron make their first appearance! Hooray!

ps: This is my personal favorite chapter yet.

Disclaimer: J.K Rowling is King / I don't own anything.

* * *

_**Chapter 7**_

Sometimes, Draco wondered what life would have looked like if he'd grown up in a different environment. If his parents hadn't been rich purebloods, how would things have been? Would his father have been less strict, more open? Would his mother have smiled more? Would Draco himself have been more sensible? And what if he'd been orphaned at a young age, and raised by a family like the Weasleys? What kind of life would he have had then? Would he have been a Gryffindor, like the rest of the lot? Would he have believed what they believed, been a member of The Order Of The Phoenix? A so-called hero? Someone people talked about with admiration and gratitude in their voice?

(And how would things have been between him and Charlie?)

Other times, Draco wondered what would have happened if he'd come to Dumbledore for help in that dreadful sixth year; if he'd told the headmaster about the Mark and the task, and the threats of death and torture Voldemort had made towards him and his family. Draco had never trusted Dumbledore, had always believed the strange old man to be just as bad as Voldemort, only different. More subtle in his manipulation and hypocritical in his cruelty. Every time Draco found himself on the verge of stepping to Dumbledore, the memories of the last day of his first year at Hogwards would return, of when Slytherin should have won the house cup, and Dumbledore had granted Gryffindor just enough points to snatch the cup away in the last moment. Of course, it had only been a stupid house cup, nothing of real importance, but it had still _hurt. _It had been unfair of Dumbledore, it had been mean, and to Draco, it had been a confirmation of his suspicion that Dumbledore only cared about himself and his. Had Draco gone to Dumbledore with his troubles, the headmaster would've used him as a pawn. He wouldn't have cared about Draco's life and happiness, and even less about that of his parents, but he would have seized the unique opportunity presented to him and would have left Draco no choice but to spy for him. Draco would've probably ended up dead within a month, and Dumbledore wouldn't have cared a bit because Draco was just a Slytherin, Potter's hated nemesis and the son of one of Voldemort's most loyal and powerful Death Eaters.

At least, that was what he'd believed back then. But after everything was said and done, Draco had started to wonder if it had been a mistake to not confine in Dumbledore. Perhaps, there would have been more honour in choosing Dumbledore's side, never mind the fact that he would be leaving one tyrant for another. Perhaps, Dumbledore would've known a way to safe both Draco's life and that of his family. It had seemed too dangerous a gamble to Draco, but in the end it might've been worth it.

_What if, what if, what if?_

If there were two words to capture the majority Draco's thoughts during his imprisonment in Azkaban, it would be those. And even after those hellish six months, those two words had been a constant, nagging presence in the back of his mind. Draco hated it. He loathed that he couldn't help but lay awake at night and ponder upon what could have been. He just wanted to be happy, like he had been before all hell broke loose.

_And now I am, _Draco thought to himself. He and Charlie were still in bed, both feeling too lazy and comfortable to get up even though it couldn't be much later than seven or eight 'o clock. Draco was lying on his side, with Charlie's chest pressed against his back and their fingers intertwined.

It was odd, to be this conscious of happiness. Draco was pretty sure he'd never felt like this before – or in the very least he'd never realized it. He simply felt… warm, and content, and _light. _This was what people lived for; this was the _purpose _of life. Draco had finally figured it out. _We live to be happy_. That was all there was to it. It really was that simple.

"Drake, has anyone ever told you that you have _the _most comfortable bed of the entire wizarding world?" Charlie purred in his ear.

Draco didn't remember exactly when Charlie had taken up to calling him that way, but he found he liked it. The only other person who'd ever felt the need to nickname him beside his mother was Pansy, though he very much preferred Charlie's version of his name. Pansy, with her high-pitched, nasal voice, always called him 'Drakey', which of course never failed to cause much hilarity among the other students.

Draco cringed at the memory. Yes, he definitely preferred 'Drake'.

"Odd as it may sound, you are the first," Draco answered.

"Really? You've never taken other people into this bed?" There was genuine surprise in Charlie's voice.

"No. There was a girl I dated at Hogwards, but I've never taken her here," he said. His relationship with Pansy had not been very successful. They'd had sex several times, but Draco had soon realized his mind was with other things when he was with Pansy… namely the bodies of the boys in the communal showers of the Quidditch locker rooms. Go figure.

"Needless to say, she was not the right person for me, not in gender and not in personality."

Pansy was a good friend and he enjoyed her company, but he could never love her, not even if she'd been a Peter or a Paul or whatever. She was just too shallow and needy.

"The same accounts for all my other relationships."

Draco'd had only two other meaningful sexual relationships beside Pansy. The first was with Steven, a cute seventh-year Slytherin. Their 'relationship' (in Draco's opinion, their fling did not quite deserve that title) had started out as a drunken one-night stand after a dungeon party in Draco's sixth year, and it had been his awkward introduction to the wonderful world of gay sex. Both of them had been drunk and neither of them had been quite sure where to put what, but thanks to their overly enthusiastic teenage hormones they somehow managed to get it done. After that one night, Draco, being the emotional wreck that he was at the time, had sought Steven out a couple of times more, but eventually they decided the whole thing was too risky. Their little fling just wasn't worth the risk of getting caught. Both Draco and Steven were deep in the proverbal broomcloset and very much wished to stay there.

His third relationship had been with Travis Rookwood, the son of a prominent Death Eater, who had been stationed at the Manor. Travis had been five years older than Draco, not particularly handsome but attractive enough in a dark, brooding way, and his situation had been very similar to Draco's. Travis had taken the mark willfully, full with radical, childish ideals and seeking for glory and purpose in life, and just like Draco, he had not found it. Their relationship had been one based on need; nothing more and nothing less. They both had been lonely, bored, scared and disillusioned, and had sought warmth and comfort in each other. When they were together, they could forget the world and just _be. _

They'd never had sex in Draco's bed; it had always been Draco who sneaked to Travis' room because he could move around the Manor more freely.

After four months, Travis was transferred to a Death Eater location in Scotland.

A few weeks later, Draco learned that Travis had committed suicide.

_Wow, my love life is rather gloomy, isn't it? _

Next to Pansy, Steven and Travis he'd only ever had a one-night stand with a guy whose name Draco did not remember, and it had been a particularly unsatisfying ordeal that had left Draco feeling dirty and pathetic. One-night stands were not his thing.

_Yes, a depressing love story indeed._

"Should I feel honoured or worried?" Charlie asked.

"Both," Draco answered, and he turned around so he was lying on his back. "Because now you've entered this bed, I'm afraid you can't ever leave again."

Charlie chuckled and pressed a kiss against Draco's lips. "Well this bed is so ridiculously comfortable, I don't think I'll have a problem with that."

Charlie laid down his head on Draco's chest and made himself comfortable there.

Draco exhaled contently and closed his eyes. Fingers trailed the thin pink ridge of flesh that marred his chest, and Charlie after a while asked: "How did you get this scar?".

Draco stiffened. His scar was a sensitive subject and triggered dark memories that in their turn triggered other, even worse memories of things better left undiscussed.

"If you don't want to talk about it, I understand," Charlie said.

Draco played with the heavy silver ring on his finger. It was a family heirloom, traditionally worn by the head of the Malfoy family. For some reason, it always calmed him to look at it.

"Well I'd rather not, to be honest," Draco admitted after a few moments of silence. He really didn't want to talk to Charlie about things that were related to his Death Eater past, and his scar was one of those. He'd rather just forget about all of it, and when he was with Charlie, it was eerily easy to do that. With Charlie he felt like he could be someone different, a version of Draco that was never a Death Eater. A 'what if' version.

"But… even if I did tell you, I don't think you would believe me," Draco said.

After all, Potter was the great savior of the wizarding world, a hero that couldn't do anything wrong even if he tried. Not to forget he was also the fiancé of Charlie's sister. Who would ever believe that a man like that had used an unfamiliar and potentially dangerous spell on another wizard?

"Try me," Charlie said.

Draco propped up on his elbows. "It was Potter who gave me this scar. In sixth year, he hexed me with a curse he didn't know the effects of and ended up almost slicing me in half."

Charlie's eyebrows shot up. "No fucking way. No-one can possibly be that stupid."

Draco felt an ancient old anger flare up inside him.

"Well, I always thought people severely overestimated Potter's intelligence," Draco said bitterly, "and it turned out I was right."

"Wow," Charlie shook his head, looking genuinely shaken up. "But why did he want to hex you in the first place?"

Draco looked away and chewed on his lip. "Well, I might have tried to crucio him. I was upset and he caught me at really bad time. We started dueling and it just… happened."

Draco couldn't see Charlie's face, and was glad of it. This was precisely why he didn't want to talk about these sorts of things.

Unexpectedly, he felt Charlie's arms around him.

"Sounds like you both were pretty stupid," the redhead said close to ear, and kissed his neck.

Draco couldn't hold back a small smile. "I think Potter was more stupid. At least I knew what my curse would do."

Charlie laughed, and Draco felt a wave of gratefulness mixed with marvel. How could a person be so laid-back? How could he just shrug off the fact that Draco had tried to crucio the Golden Boy? Draco couldn't comprehend it, but found himself wishing that there were more Charlies in the world.

"I bet Harry really beat himself up over that incident. He hates hurting other people."

Draco realized Charlie was probably right. If there ever was a knight of morality, it was Potter. Funny, Draco had never thought about it that way before. After all, Potter had never apologized, so he had just assumed he didn't care.

"You know what, let's not talk about Potter anymore," Draco said. "It's putting me off."

Charlie chuckled. "You know, he's actually a decent bloke. He's himself, and he doesn't give a shit about what other people think of him."

"Well good for him," Draco huffed.

"No need to be jealous, I think you're a pretty decent bloke as well."

Draco grimaced. "Just pretty decent? I should kick you out of the bed."

"Pretty _and _decent," Charlie said and kissed him deep.

Draco let himself fall back into the cushions. _This _was what he wanted to do. Not talk about scars and Potters and wars and Voldemorts.

Then Draco's stomach growled. Charlie chuckled and Draco hit him with a pillow.

"Hungry?" Charlie asked with a teasing smile.

"Maybe a little bit."

Draco's stomach made another rumbling noise.

"Only a _little bit_?" Charlie asked with an amused look on his face.

Draco sighed. "Alright, I'm starving, let's go find some dinner."

"Sounds good." Charlie sat up and reached for his pants.

"What are you hungry for? Marianne makes great pumpkin soup and roast lamb, with lemon-custard cakes as dessert," Draco said as he buttoned his shirt.

Charlie raised his eyebrows. "And here I was hoping _you _were going to cook for me."

Him? Cooking? Sometimes Draco thought Charlie did not quite know who he was dealing with. Because expecting Lord Malfoy to cook was like expecting Voldemort to cuddle a kitten.

Draco told Charlie that much and the redhead shook his head incredulously.

"You really have no idea how to cook?"

"No. I remember I tried it once when I was a kid, because I wanted chocolate cake or something like that for dinner and my mother wouldn't let me have it. I ended up setting the kitchen on fire. After that, mother forbid the house elves to ever let me set foot in the kitchen again. "

Charlie laughed. "I bet you were an impossible brat as a kid."

"An impossible _cute _brat," Draco corrected him.

"You still are," Charlie teased.

"Takes one to know one," Draco retorted smartly.

* * *

Narcissa woke from a horrible nightmare, drenched in sweat. She could not recall what the dream had been about (had there been black butterflies and green flames?), only that she had to find Draco _right now_, because something was not right.

Bits of reddish light gleamed behind the cream curtains. Narcissa did not know if it was dusk or dawn or if the entire world was on fire, and she did not care either, because Draco was missing and her gut told her he was in danger.

She climbed out of bed and put on a baby-blue silk night robe. She retrieved her wand from the drawer next to her bed and clasped it tightly. With a heavily pounding heart, she carefully opened the door a few inches. She peaked through the gap. The hallway was empty, and too dark for Narcissa's taste. She knew what could be lurking in the shadows, what was living in her house. Evil.

Merlin, she really did not want to go out there. She wanted to crawl back into her bed and sleep for eternity. But worry for her son defeated her fear, and Nacissa left the safe haven that was her bedroom. Shivering and with her arms wrapped around herself she shuffled down the hallway. It was at times like this that she missed the house where she lived as a girl. 12 Grimmauld Place was a spacious house, and as elegant and stately as they come, but nowhere near as grand as Malfoy Manor. It had been her home though, for so many years, and she had loved it there. It was big enough to run around in and play hide-and-seek with her sisters, but not so big that she would feel lost. You could always hear the other inhabitants, because the walls were so thin, and if you were searching for someone it would never take long to find them – contrary to Malfoy Manor, where you could walk around for ages without seeing or hearing a soul.

"Draco?" Narcissa asked in a small voice. Where was he? Was he hurt? Was he here at all?

She glanced around, and her eyes lingered on the shadows in the corners. Was it just her imagination, or did she see something move in the dark, something small and deadly?

There was a glimmer of something golden (eyes?) and a strangled sob escaped her throat. She started walking faster, was almost running now, but stood still abruptly when she heard the low murmur of a male voice she could not place. Her eyes locked on the door right in front of her, that led to the small dining room (not the large one, never the large one, because that was where _he_ always was). Who was in there? Was Draco with them? Or maybe Lucius? What was going on? A meeting between Death Eaters she was not told about and not welcome? Rosier had said some horrible things to her the last time she interrupted one of his… playdates, as he called them, and she did not feel up to facing such a thing. In fact, she did not feel up to anything at all. She did not feel like herself. When had she turned so weak?

_Pathetic, you are pathetic, _a voice sang in her head; a voice that sounded suspiciously much like Bella's. _This is _your _house, and it is _your _son that is in danger. You have seen how Fenrir looks at him, and you know that he is but a thorn in the Dark Lord's side… _

Another voice spoke, not in her head but for real this time, and Narcissa instantly recognized her son. She would recognize his voice everywhere, always. Determination and love took hold of her heart. She tightened the hold on her wand and put her hand on the door handle.

_I _will_ protect my son._

With that thought firmly planted in the center of her mind, she pushed the door open and stepped inside; her wand high and ready to protect her son from Fenrir or Mulciber or Rosier, or even the Dark Lord himself.

She dropped her wand when her brain processed the sight in front of her.

Draco was eating dinner with a handsome red-haired stranger. Just eating dinner, some kind of soup if seemed, and he was not in danger.

Narcissa blinked. It almost seemed as if… he was older than yesterday. Not eighteen anymore.

But that was not possible. Right?

Thousandth questions assaulted her mind, all at the same time, and it was making her head hurt. She pressed her hands against her forehead and squeezed her eyes shut. Perhaps when she opened them, the world would make sense again.

_Who is that red-haired man?_

_He's not a Death Eater but that can't be because if he isn't he wouldn't be here –_

_Why hasn't Draco told me he was having a guest for dinner! I would have come to greet them properly –_

_What would Lucius say, if he were still alive!_

_It's been so long since we had real guests and I should have –_

_Lucius would have been _furious _if he found out –  
_

_I knew, a mother always knows that sort of thing…_

_But he knew it too, didn't he? He just didn't want it to be true…_

_I'm so glad he's alright, so glad he's –_

She opened her eyes, and the world was all blurry, and her head throbbing with pain. Draco was next to her, and she reached out her hand to touch his face but somehow managed to fall instead. Her knees hit the floor but she barely felt it, because Draco's arms were around her, keeping her from collapsing to the ground. The blurry lines of his face were last thing she saw before her eyes fell close once more.

* * *

"Alright, I want all eyes on me," Head Auror Marcy Leafe said in a loud, authoritative voice. She was standing in the Auror office in front of the neat rows of desks, with her arms behind her back and a grim look on her face. Her long black hair was braided and her dark eyes were shining with determination.

Harry Potter lowered his mug of coffee and straightened his back. He knew what the look on his superior's face meant: there was a new case, and not a small one.

"This -" She gave a flick with her wand and a picture of a glass flask filled with lavender-coloured potion appeared. "- is a calming elixir known by the name of Afflexia Lexcide. It was banned from the stores after experts discovered it is highly addictive. By the time the discovery was made, however, already dozens of people had come to St. Mugos with severe signs of addiction, which means that both their mind and body have become dependent of the Lexcide. It is suspected that there are many more victims out there, either hiding their addiction or nor conscious of it."

Harry remembered the articles in the papers about the elixir. He was glad none of his friends and family had fell victim to the vile potion.

_But this isn't a job for the Auror Department, there is no Dark Magic involved. It seems more like the kind of thing the DIS investigates._

"I see you thinking: what do we have to do with this? Shouldn't this case be in the hands of the Department of Intoxicating Substances? Well, it was, until the DIS found the body of a man who was killed with Dark Magic. A couple of days ago the DIS broke into the building where the Lexcide was manufactured to arrest those involved in the brewing process, only to find the place abandoned. They also found the body of the man who was registered as the owner of the company that's manufacturing the Lexcide. He was killed with an entrail-expelling curse from his own wand. The mediwizards also found traces of mind-altering spells on his corpse, presumingly _Imperio_. It is safe to say that whoever was controlling him had no further use for him. The man, Horace White, appears to have had no direct family or close friends, because nobody has reported him missing."

"The people behind the Lexcide are still walking around freely, and it seems the ban on the elixir has not discouraged them from continuing their business. Instead of selling it to shop owners, they now sell it on the streets. More addicts report at St. Mungo's every day, and this will continue until we find those responsible for manufacturing and spreading the Lexcide. There is not yet a counterpotion to the addiction, but the mind-healers at St. Mungo's are doing whatever they can to help the victims with muggle therapy and potions and spells that relieve the effects of withdrawal symptoms."

Harry gripped his coffee mug tightly. This was bad. He knew drug addictions were a great problem in the muggle world. The muggle police had a hard time catching drug dealers, and it was even harder to find the brains behind the organization. The key figures protected themselves well and stayed far away from the actual dealing process. They used violence and money to keep their employees from blabbering, and were very acquainted with the methods of the police.

"The minister has declared this case top priority, and so we will take over the investigation from the DIS," Head Auror Leafe said. "Aurors Yang, Love, Vergo and Van Gelden, I want you to investigate all the registered potion factories in the country. Take trainees Davies and Payne with you."

"Auror Sunnerman and trainee Weasley," Head Auror Leafe continued, "look into the financial records of all those companies. The DIS have already collected a lot of information, so I suggest you use that a starting point."

Harry glanced at Ron, whose desk was next to Harry's. His friend did not groan out loud, but the displeasure was practically dripping off his face. Ron hated paperwork and wasn't very good at it either. Harry did not know if Ron hated it because he sucked at it, or sucked at it because he hated it, but suspected a combination of both.

Harry and Ron were two of the five trainee Aurors who had survived the Auror Academy. After eighteen months of non-stop, nerve and body wrecking training they were promoted from pupils to trainees. They were now in the middle of their fourteen month-long internship. If they finished their internship successfully, a probation period of ten months would start, and if they finished that as well, they'd be appointed by the Minister as official Ministry Aurors.

"Warrant-Auror Kelly, you and your department will investigate White's murder. Find out everything there is to know about him; who was he, where did he live, what was daily routine, with whom did he associate?"

"Auror Embrey, I want you and trainee Potter to talk to persons of interest. The DIS have set up a list with possible suspects; people that have both the galleons and the resources to pull off an operation like this, and have either been convicted or otherwise involved with illegal business in the past."

Leafe gave another flick with her wand and a copy of the list appeared on Harry's desk. It was a short list; only twelve names long, and one name in particular immediately caught his eye: Draco Malfoy.

_Interesting. _

"Sunnerman and Weasley, I want you to look into the financial records of the suspects as well. I'll owl the Goblins about the case, so they can give you access to the information you need."

"Warrant-Auror Alden, I want you and your entire department on surveillance. Take trainee Ace with you. Keep an eye on all the usual places: Knockturn, Blackcorner, Ravenburrow etcetera etcetera. If you see anything suspicious, like traces of glamours or disillusionment charms, or people who are selling something that could contain Lexcide, like flasks, bottles or cans; dive into it. I want every seller and buyer of Lexcide in the interrogation room, until this entire organization is behind bars and all Lexcide destroyed. Is that clear to you all?"

Harry and the other Aurors and trainees nodded.

"Good. Then move those lazy asses and get to work." Head Auror Leafe clapped her hands and stalked into her private office. As soon she was out of sight, conversation burst loose.

Harry couldn't keep a grin from his face. He was going to interrogate suspects with Auror Embrey! This was the real deal, the kind of job he had been hoping for. He felt bad for Ron, who was once again stuck behind his desk, but that couldn't dim his own excitement.

_I can't wait to tell Ginny!_

"I hate you mate," Ron said to him. "Financial records! I swear Leafe is trying to kill me with all this paperwork, because I'm going to die of boredom!"

Harry snickered. "Come on Ron, you know she's letting you do this because you're not good with it. It's a part of the job, so you'll have to learn how to deal with it."

Ron pulled a sour face. "I know. It still bloody sucks though."

His eyes fell on the list with suspect names. "Blimey, is that Malfoy on the list?"

"Yep."

"So you're going to interrogate him? That's bloody brilliant! Oh, I wish I could be there. Do you think he's guilty?"

"I dunno," Harry said. "He always was good with potions, but would he really risk his freedom like this? He spent six months in Azkaban, and we all know what that place is like. I remember the pictures of his release in the papers; he looked awful."

If it were up to Harry, Azkaban would be closed permanently. There were other, less cruel ways to confine criminals. Some of them deserved the terror of the dementors, like murderers and rapists, but lesser criminals like Malfoy were also put away in there, and Harry did not think that was right.

"On top of that," Harry continued. "Everyone knows Malfoy's already filthy stinking rich, why would he need more gold?"

"Exactly!" Ron said. "He was good with potions, is angry with society that he was locked away in Azkaban, and bored to death in his giant mansion. And you know what those rich people are like, they always want more gold. Nothing is ever enough for them."

"I don't know," Harry said, not entirely convinced. "Let's just see how the investigation turns out, and then pull conclusions."

"Whatever you want, mate," Ron said as he leaned back in his chair with his hands behind his head. "But I'll tell you: he's guilty as fuck, just wait and see. In fact, I bet you ten galleons he's behind all this."

"I'm not going to bet with you, Ron," Harry said with a roll of his eyes.

Ron grinned. "Because you know you would lose."

Harry was about to protest when he noticed Auror Embrey standing in front of their desks. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man with long brown hair that he wore in a ponytail. Harry had never worked with Embrey before, but had heard he was nice, straightforward guy that was very good at what he did, though slightly unconventional in his ways.

"So, which one of you is trainee Potter?" Embrey asked as his eyes went from Harry to Ron and back. "Nah, just kidding, I know it's you." He leaned against Harry's desk with a crooked grin on his face.

Harry smiled. "For some odd reason, everybody seems to know who I am."

"Yeah, I wonder why that is," Embrey laughed. "I'm Jared Embrey, pleasure to work with you."

Embrey offered his hand and Harry shook it. "Harry Potter. We're going to nail this case."

"That's the spirit! I just took a quick look into the DIS' files, and I think Malfoy is our prime suspect. So I suggest we safe him for last."

Harry blinked. "Shouldn't we interview him first, if he's our prime?"

"No, no, you still have a lot to learn, young trainee. If you do your prime first, you'll still be focused on him when you talk to the others, and you might miss important clues."

That sounded logical enough. "Alright, where do you suggest we start then?"

"Bert Berkinson," Embrey said. "He has a funny name. But first, let's go grab something to eat."

"Embrey, you're a mind reader," Harry said. He finished his now cold coffee and put on his trainee robe. Just like the Auror uniform, the trainee uniform consisted of a burgundy red robe, a set of black trousers and a black turtleneck shirt, but the robe was shorter and devoid of the double row of golden buttons that characterized the Auror's uniform, and instead of the official golden Auror emblem they had the silver trainee emblem on their chest.

"I know a place with great ham-and-cheese pie right around the corner," Embrey said.

Harry mouth watered. He loved pie.

_I have the feeling this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship, _he thought.

* * *

Charlie was smoking a cigarette, rolling it between his fingers as he thought about everything and nothing at same time. He was leaning against the stone grey balustrade of one of the many balconies of the Manor. It overlooked the garden, which was bathing in the soft, multicoloured glow of the setting sun. It was a beautiful and calming sight, but Charlie noticed many deadly magical plants that grew underneath the blossoming trees and between the flowers. The plants could be used in a variety of potions, and many of them were poisonous. Some would eat away your skin if you'd touch them; others had vines that could creep up on you oh-so-slowly and strangle you. That last category was planted near the edge of the garden, and Charlie suspected they were meant for intruders.

"I'm sorry you had to see that," Draco said.

Charlie started slightly and almost dropped his cigarette, because he had heard not heard the other man approaching.

"Bloody hell, don't creep up on me like that," Charlie said.

"Sorry," Draco said and put his hands on the balustrade, looking down.

There were a few moments of silence. Charlie took another drag from his cigarette, before offering it to Draco.

The blonde accepted the cigarette, and Charlie watched as he breathed in deeply and let the smoke spill from lips. It was the first time Charlie thought Draco really did his name justice; he had never looked more like a dragon.

"It doesn't matter," Charlie said.

"What, that I crept up on you or what just happened in the dining room?"

"Both."

Draco passed the cigarette back to Charlie. The two of them smoked in silence for a while, as the sun sank lower and lower and the mockingbirds sang in the trees.

"I think she panicked when she saw you," Draco eventually broke the silence between them. "She's not crazy, she just doesn't know who you are. She's been… confused, ever since Azkaban. But I think it has as much to do with what happened before Azkaban, if not more. She always worried so much over me."

Draco turned to look at Charlie. "She wasn't always like this. She used to be… arrogant. I don't mean that in a positive or negative way, it's just how she was. Prideful and graceful and critical. 'If you look down on people they cannot look down on you', she used to say sometimes. And there was as much truth in that statement as self-delusion."

He said the words with unexpected passion, and Charlie realized how important this was to Draco, that Charlie understood what he meant and wouldn't judge, and how hard it was for him to talk about his mother and her condition, of which Charlie knew nothing more than what he'd seen but already had a quite clear idea of.

"Now she's… less than she was before. It's as if parts of her personality have either blanched or faded away completely. Yet at the same time, other parts of her shine brighter than before, as if certain barriers have fallen away. She's more open, more emotional, more kind. Sometimes it even seems as if she's happier than she ever was before. Does that sound strange?"

"Not at all," Charlie said, and he meant it.

"Of course, she also has panic attacks regularly, and nightmares. Sometimes she's completely sane, and other times she's utterly convinced that the Dark Lord is still living in our house, and no matter what I tell her, she won't believe me when I tell her otherwise."

Charlie felt a painful stab of pity. To believe in your heart and mind that a monster like Voldemort is living in your house, threatening your family… that had to be horrible. And to see your own mother like that… Charlie vouched then and there that he would visit his own mother more often.

"Have you ever thought about getting professional help?" Charlie asked.

"No!" Draco snapped forcefully. "I won't send her to St. Mungo's, she won't survive that. If she has a panic attack and I'm not around… I'm the only one she has left; being without me would kill her!"

_Would it kill you too? _Charlie wondered, but he didn't voice the question out loud. Instead he left his cigarette on the balustrade and wrapped his arms around Draco from behind.

"I'm sorry I suggested it," he said softly. "But perhaps the mind-healers know a way to help her better. I don't know if you use any potions or spells on her…"

"I have a potion, I brew it myself. It calms her and helps her clear her mind, though the side-effect is that it also makes her sleepy. And she gets Dreamless Sleep every night, but sometimes even that isn't enough to keep the nightmares at bay…" Draco sighed. He sounded tired. "Maybe the healers _can _help her better than I can, but what if they insist that she stays there? That's not an option. So I'm doing the right thing by not contacting them, right?"

Charlie realized Draco needed confirmation that he was doing the right thing by keeping Narcissa hidden away in the Manor.

"I don't know," he answered truthfully. "I'm not a mind-healer, and the way you put it, she really does need you around. But on the other hand, perhaps they know a way to cure her at St. Mungo's."

"She can't be cured," Draco said. "I've done a lot of research, and when there's spell-damage involved –"

_Crucio_, Charlie thought.

"– in combination with long periods of stress, there's very little that can be done."

"Are you one hundred percent sure of that?"

Charlie could not see Draco's face, but knew he was biting on his lip.

"I'm not fully sure," the blonde admitted.

"Well, there you have your answer."

"It can't continue like this, can it?" Draco said, and he turned so he could look Charlie in the eye.

"If you feel that way," Charlie said. "I'll support you no matter what."

Draco cocked his head slightly and studied Charlies face as if he wasn't sure what Charlie meant by that.

Charlie wasn't sure what he meant by that himself.

"Thank you," Draco said, and he put his hands on Charlie's chest. "You really are an odd fellow, aren't you?" he asked with a puzzled look on his face.

"Actually I think I'm fairly plain. Nothing odd about me."

A half-hearted smile formed on Draco's lips. "That's what all odd people say."

"Well, takes one to know one," Charlie said, returning the words Draco had said to him before dinner.

Draco chuckled. "We're all odd here."

"I believe the correct phrase is 'we're all mad here'."

"Huh?"

"It's a line from a muggle book," Charlie explained. "Ginny's a big fan of muggle literature."

"Oh, I see. Sounds like a book I should read."

"Did I hear that right? Lord Malfoy wants to read lowly muggle literature?" Charlie said teasingly.

Draco raised his chin. "I don't trust muggle food and technology, but I have to admit it would be interesting to get a look inside a muggle's head. The poor creatures have no idea of magic after all, so they must have a twisted perception of how the world works."

Draco's grey eyes were gleaming in the last rays of sunlight and a small, haughty smile played on his lips. He seemed utterly oblivious of how absolutely ridiculous his words sounded, and it made him look so young and innocent that Charlie had to blink his eyes and mentally step back a bit.

How could somebody so tainted as Draco have such innocence over him, and look so divinely beautiful? It should not have been possible, and yet here it was, right before his eyes. The world truly was a painting of greys.

_Just like Draco's eyes._

He crushed their lips together; there was nothing else he could do. Draco wrapped his arms around him and kissed him back with equal enthusiasm. Their tongues met, warm and sweet and _perfect, _and it took Charlie's breath away in all the good ways.

"Ahem," somebody scraped their throat.

Charlie let out a frustrated groan and turned to glare daggers at whoever it was that had the nerve to interrupt their kiss, but faltered when he saw it was Draco's maid, Marianne, who was standing in the door opening with a thoroughly unamused look on her face.

"Excuse me, _gentlemen, _but the second course is ready and I have not roasted that lamb only to see it wither away."

She folded her arms and suddenly looked so frighteningly much like Molly Weasley that Charlie fled inside as fast as his feet could carry him, followed on the heels by Draco, who elaborately apologized to Marianne for leaving the dinner table.

Sex could wait; first there was dinner.

_**- TBC -**_

**_I'd love to hear your thoughts about this chapter ^^_**

**_The next chapter will be soon(er), because for the first time I know exactly what I'm going to write._**


	8. Chapter 8

Late chapter is late. Like, extremely late. There are no excuses for the outrageous lateness of this chapter. I have my reasons of course, but you're probably not interested in those anyway. Let's just call it a busy schedule and an unexpected writer's block. But now, I'm back on track! I say: onto the next chapter!

Disclaimer: surprising as it may be, I don't own anything.

* * *

_**Chapter 8**_

"I hope you understand my concern, Malfoy," Quintrell Bellard D'Ancelet, Lucius' former business rival and annoying French nail in Draco's coffin, said with a small, haughty smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. The man was sitting in his chair like a king on his throne, with one arm casually draped over the armrest and a glass of blood-red wine in his other hand.  
"Honeykettle is planning to prefer charges against you, and it _will_ cost you. You can save a lot of galleons, time and energy if you…what was the word again? Oh yes, _pay him off_. Make the poor pedestrian an offer he can't refuse, _et voila. _Honeykettle has his compensation; you don't lose more galleons than necessary; and nobody has to go to court. Sounds like a solution that would benefit us all, _non?_"

Draco felt several veins twitch. D'Ancelet was a pompous arsehole and a slippery snake to boot. Everything he did, from the words he said and to the smallest gestures he made, gave Draco the feeling he was looked down upon. And _no-one_ looks down on a Malfoy.

"Pray tell, D'Ancelet," Draco drawled, "exactly why is this of your concern?"

"Look at it as a show of kindness and concern for a fellow business man, _mon ami_. I wouldn't want a respectful company such as yours to suffer needlessly because of something I had as much a part in as you," D'Ancelet said with a smile that would look caring and sincere to almost everybody, but not to Draco. After all, he grew up with Lucius Malfoy as a father. He could see even the most carefully hidden coldness in someone's face, and D'Ancelet was a man entirely made out of ice, even though he appeared to be warm and golden, with his thick, honey blonde hair, ember eyes and tanned skin. He was the kind of man that made wrinkles look like accessories instead of signs of degradation, and walked around with an aura of superiority that was wielded so effortlessly it could make any man feel small and ridiculous. Any man but Draco, of course. He had grown stronger than that.

"I wasn't born yesterday, D'Ancelet. Though I don't doubt the sincerity of your _kind _regards towards me, I'm sure there is more behind this visit," Draco said with a smile that mirrored that of the other man.

"You're right – you've caught me, _mon ami_. I would benefit as well if this whole tiring matter stayed far away from the tedious, overcomplicated puppet show that is the British Wizarding court system. Because even though I cannot by any means be hold legally responsible for anything – "

_Yes, your solicitors have made sure of that, _Draco thought sardonically.

" – if Honeykettle goes to court I will be called forth to answer all sorts of needless questions and my time is very precious," D'Ancelet said with a dismissing gesture of his hand.

Draco narrowed his eyes slightly as he sipped from his wine, carefully weighing D'Ancelets words. The man was hiding something, Draco was sure of it, but what? And why? Why was D'Ancelet so intent on convincing Draco to bribe Honeykettle? And even more interestingly, how far was he filling to go to make sure Draco would do just that?

Draco leaned back in his chair, a thoughtful look on his face. "I'm not convinced. I think I stand a very good chance in court against Honeykettle. My lawyers are the best in the country and even though I admit there have been made some sloppy errors on my company's part, Honeykettle Industries is legally yours now. If you wish to replace Mr. Honeykettle by a director of your own choosing, there is nothing that can be done about that. If Honeykettle prefers charges he may win the case, but I sincerely doubt. He too, has made mistakes. He signed the contract you sent him out of his own free will; it's not my fault he didn't read it carefully enough. I should have provided him more information, there's no denying that, and one could argue that I've breached our contract, but I honestly hadn't thought the man would make such a fuss about all this, considering your willingness to pay a royal final paycheck. At any rate, by signing your contract he gave you the power to fire him, and if I violated my own contract with him by selling the company to you in the first place, he should have interfered earlier instead of whining about it after the deal was done. So no, I'm not going to bribe him. It's my father who was fond of such practices, not I."

D'Ancelet's smile tightened. "It seems you and your father are even less alike than I'd thought; a shame, I must say. The Malfoy family company used to be a worthy opponent on the playfield, but now…" He shook his head with a mournful expression on his face.

_Fucking bastard, _Draco thought. _I'll show him a worthy opponent...!_

"I feel your pain, D'Ancelet. I know what it's like to be disappointed." Draco subtly brushed his left forearm, where his Mark was. D' Ancelet's eyes lingered on the spot. The tension in the room shifted, and Draco inwardly smirked.

_That stupid Mark can be useful on some occasions. Too bad those occasions are so rare.  
_

D' Ancelet's brief moment of unbalance didn't last long; within the blink of an eye his confident, gallant smile was back in place, and he chuckled softly. "Now that's more like it, _mon ami_. Maybe you're not that different from your father after all."

Draco clenched his teeth behind his smile. He did not appreciate being compared to his father. He had loved his father, had yearned for his approval, but so many things he had been taught had turned out wrong, and so many legacies left by his father had turned out to be poisonous...

If eyes could cast _Crucio_, D'Ancelet would lie screaming on the floor now. It made for a satisfactory mental image.

"Some people would interpret that gesture as a threat though," D'Ancelet continued. "And I don't appreciate being threatened," the Frenchman said with a light but dangerous tone in his voice. "Those who are foolish enough to do so, usually find themselves in quite a different place than they'd expected..."

Draco blinked faux-innocently. "I don't know what you're talking about, my dear friend. As I said before, I'm not my father: I don't bribe people, and I'll have you know I don't threaten them either."

That was a truth if there ever was one. After everything he'd been through, Draco was not stupid (or courageous) enough to flirt with that side of the business world.

"Unlike you, it appears," Draco continued. "Somehow, I'm not surprised. So is that's why you're really here? You want to threaten me into bribing Honeykettle? Why go to such lengths? Why don't you just pay him off yourself?"

Draco was tired of dancing around the heart of the matter. He wanted answers.

D'Ancelet sighed as if the weight of world had just descended on his shoulders. "Such crudeness. _Quelle tragédie. _The finer points of the delicate dance of doing business truly are lost on you."

"Spit it out, D' Ancelet," Draco gritted, his patience wearing thin.

Truthfully, Draco was reluctant to go to court, even if it would be cheaper than paying Honeykettle off. He just really didn't want the publicity. Until now, Draco had managed to stay as far away from the ministry as possible, and he very much wished to keep things that way. But D' Ancelet didn't need to know that.

D'Ancelet looked at Draco for a moment, in thought, and then spoke. "It would seem, eh, _suspicious _to certain people. After all, it is as you say: what do _I_ have to gain from Honeykettle not suing you?"

"Which certain people are we talking about?" Draco asked with a small frown. This was getting more suspicious by the minute.

"Oh, just people."

"Just people? Important people? _Ministry _people?"

D'Ancelet slowly swirled his wine, his gaze on the glass. "Perhaps they are, perhaps they aren't."

"So that's a yes then," Draco said, comprehension dawning on him. "You're under investigation by the ministry. Why?"

D'Ancelet looked at him and raised an eyebrow. "You don't know? I suspected as much, but still, it's surprising. British Aurors are even slower than I thought. But you'll find them in your floo soon enough I suppose. After all, you're as likely a suspect as I am."

"A suspect of what?" Draco asked with a clenching feeling in his chest.

D'Ancelet stood up from his chair, and straightened his robes. "I'm afraid I've already said too much. Though it doesn't really matter – not anymore. It is clear you can't be reasoned with, which means I'll have to take matters into my own hands. _Merde_, I really didn't want it to come this far, but alas, you leave me no choice."

"What are you going on about?" Draco snapped.

D'Ancelet emptied his glass of wine, while his other hand slipped in the pocket of his robe. Draco registered it just a second too late. He drew his wand, _expelliarmus _already on his lips, but D'Ancelet was quicker.

"_Imperio_," the Frenchman said, sounding almost bored.

There was a flash of the coldest blue, and then there was nothing.

* * *

Unlike his wife to be, Ronald Weasley was not fond of books. If anything, he hated them – always had and always would. One would think that having Hemoine Granger as a girlfriend would have led him to change him his opinion of bound piles of papers with words on them, but as it turned out that wasn't the case. Ron hardly ever read, and when did, it was not for fun.

_Merlin have mercy and kill me now, _Ron thought as he rubbed his rigorously freckled face with hands stiff from turning pages. He was in the Hall Of Archives in Gringotts, behind a too small, goblin-sized desk and literally surrounded by books. They were placed in alphabetic order on wooden shelves that went on for miles and miles and miles. They contained a detailed recording of the finances of every witch and wizard that owned a vault at Gringotts – which was practically every witch and wizard in Britain.

Four heavy tomes lay on the floor next to Ron's desk. Some were as thick as his fist; others were at least two fists thick. On top of his desk was yet another book, bound in brown leather and with yellowed pages.

These books contained the financial history of all twelve suspects of the Lexcide case. The goblins registered every galleon, sickle, knut or artifact that entered or left a vault with utmost precision. This included the exact date and time, as well as whether the owners had retrieved or brought in the galleons themselves or if they had sent an owl to the goblins with a request to transfer something from one vault to another. If the latter was the case, the goblins also took note of who the benefiter was, even if it was a vault in another country. Goblins had all sorts of clever ways to keep track of their gold.

Ron and Auror Sunnerman had spent the entire morning behind these tiny desks. Ron knew the Goblins could've easily provided them with a more comfortable working place. The wretched creatures obviously took sadistic pleasure in watching Ron and Sunnerman get aching backs and cramped legs.

Ron sighed and rested his head in his hands. He was down to his last tome, finally. He stared at the stiff leather cover miserably and thought of Hermoine. The scent of parchment, ink and wooden shelves reminded him of her. Sweet, sexy Hermoine, with her witty remarks, chestnut hair, chocolate eyes and soft, warm skin. Ron knew he did not deserve a woman as smart and beautiful as her. And yet, she was going to be his wife.

_Ah, who am I kidding? I do deserve her. I helped save the world from freakin' Voldemort!_

A goofy grin formed on Ron's face, and Sunnerman threw a quill at his head.

"Oi, Weasly! Less daydreaming and more reading! I'd like to be done before dinnertime, if you don't mind."

"Don't get your knickers in a twist, I was just getting started. I only needed a moment to mentally prepare myself, alright?" Ron said grumpily. He opened the book and sneezed when a cloud of dust rose up from the pages.

Ron cursed. He wished he could have performed a cleaning spell, but those damned goblins had taken their wands. Apparently they did not trust armed wizards with their precious books.

_This is all completely useless, _Ron thought as he started flipping through the pages. _Why don't we just arrest Malfoy, throw him in jail and wait to see what happens. If the production of Lexcide stops he's guilty, and if it doesn't… well, that's irrelevant, since it's obvious he's behind all this.  
_  
Both Hermoine and Harry would probably not agree with that reasoning, but Ron didn't care. He was an Auror in training, for Merlin's sake! He wanted to _do _something instead of sitting here with only dusty books, nasty Gobblins and that arsehole Sunnerman to keep him company.

_Come on, Ron, just one more to go, _he told himself. _One more book, and then you can go to Hermoine. _

* * *

Draco woke up on the sofa in his office. He frowned and tried to sit up but immediately fell back into cushions again, wincing as a knife-sharp pain cut through his head. He massaged his temples and cast a _Tempus_ charm. It was five 'o clock.

_Already five 'o clock? How is that possible? When the hell did I fall asleep?_

He remembered his meeting with D'Ancelet. The Frenchman had told him he'd received an owl from Honeykettle, in which the man had told him he'd changed his mind and accepted the final paycheck D'Ancelet had offered him after all. Why D'Ancelet had come all the way to the Manor to tell him this was a mystery to Draco.

_Probably just to spite me, _Draco thought as he remembered all the snide remarks D'Ancelet had made.

_But what did I do after he left? _

Draco walked to his desk and studied his quill. There was ink on the tip that hadn't been there before, which meant he'd sent a letter.

_I think I remember that… I wrote Wayne to inform him of Honeykettle's one-eighty._

Yes, that made sense. Still, it was slightly disconcerting his memories were so vague and sluggish.

_That wine hit harder than I thought. I should have eaten something before the meeting._

Nothing to do about that now. Draco sat up, his head still hurting a little, and asked Marianne to bring him some sandwiches, though he wasn't really hungry. He didn't quite feel like himself, and blamed it on the wine and D'Ancelets remarks about how much better a businessman his father had been.

_Think happy thoughts, think happy thoughts…_ _  
_  
As was becoming the norm, Draco's happy thoughts involved Charlie. He let his mind wander back to yesterday, when he'd had a date with Charlie at The Green Dragon. Draco had worn a recognize-me-not glamour, like he usually did. Every time Draco went out without a glamour people would stare at him with unfriendly eyes. His face hadn't been in the newspapers for years, but apparently people had a very good memory for the faces of criminals.

Luckily wizardkind had invented glamours for such occasions, and Draco had had a very pleasant evening with Charlie, which ended in the redhead's apartment (or rather: his bed). Charlie had a very nice place. It was not very big – though Charlie had assured him that it was, at least in apartment terms – but it was neat enough and with large windows that caught a lot of sun. And, most importantly of course, the bed was comfortable as well.

There was a knock on the door and Marianne entered the office, without the promised sandwiches.

"Excuse me, Lord Molfoy," she said. "You have a floo-call."

_A floo call? Who the hell could that be?_

As far as Draco knew, he wasn't expecting anyone.

_Perhaps it's Charlie…_

The red-haired dragon tamer _had _told Draco he wouldn't be working late today…

"Thank Marianne," Draco said. He quickly checked his appearance in the mirror and discovered that his robes were all crumpled and the pillows had left ugly red marks on his cheeks. Also his hair was a right mess.

_Ugh. _

Draco pulled a face. He was never going to fall asleep on the couch again.

He cast a quick charm to straighten his robes and combed his hair with his fingers to make it look somewhat representable, which failed so horrible that he just summoned a pot of hair gel. Very expensive, Italian hair gel of course.

_Desperate times call for drastic measures.  
_  
"Lord Malfoy, the caller is waiting…" Marianne pointed out.

"I know, I know… just a minute… done!"

Draco put away the gel, cleaned his sticky fingers with a handkerchief and made his way to the salon. The salon, also known as the floo-room, harbored the only floo in the entire Manor that was connected to the floo-network. In the green flames was a face Draco didn't recognize. He masked his surprise and eyed the visitor with a cool, business-like expression.

"Good afternoon, Mister Malfoy," the owner of the face said. He was handsome, with long brown hair, blue eyes and a bit of a beard. "My name is Jared Embrey, and I'm a ministry Auror. My colleague and I would like to ask you a few questions."

Draco was immediately on his guard. "No problem", he said casually. "I'll open the floo connection for you."

"Thank you." Auror Embrey's face disappeared, and Draco tapped against the marble mantelpiece with his wand. A moment later, the flames turned wild and green again, and two men stepped out of the floo. The first was Embrey, and the second was…

_Oh you've got to me kidding me!_

"Potter," Draco gritted.

Potter wiped the ashes off his red Auror robes. "Malfoy," he said with a somewhat stiff nod of his head.

_Un-fucking-believable. _Draco cursed his bad luck. D'Ancelet and Potter on one day. This was just too much for one person to handle.

_Yet another person that looks down on me has invited himself in my home. And instead of D'Ancelet's arrogant stupor I now have to put up with the Great Savior's holier-than-thou attitude. _

Draco was grinding his teeth as all the irritation that had built up inside him during his meeting with D'Ancelet returned in full force.

Potter steadied his glasses and looked at Draco with a thoroughly unimpressed look on his face. Draco was astonished to see that Potter was _still _wearing the same spitting ugly round glasses. He did know there were potions to fix eyesight, right?

_I will never understand this man._

Draco forced himself to calm down and remember the rules of hospitality.

_Be calm and professional, you and Potter and not children anymore (and he saved your life once, remember?). He's here as an Auror on duty, and you should be respectful and gracious towards him._

"Gentleman, welcome," Draco said with what had to be the most insincere smile in the history of smiling. "Take a seat."

"Thank you, mister Malfoy," Embrey said. He and Potter took seat on the large, olive-green sofa.

Draco said down on an armchair opposite of them. The chair was slightly higher than the sofa, but still Draco couldn't shake off the feeling he was at a disadvantage in this conversation. First and foremost because he didn't have the slightest clue as to what Potter and his buddy were doing here.

"Can I get you something to drink?" Draco asked. "Coffee or tea, or something stronger perhaps?"

"Thank you, mister Malfoy, but no thanks," Embrey answered. He was obviously the one in charge, and would be asking the questions. "This won't take long. We just have a few questions for you, and then we'll be out of your hair."

"Alright. Of course I'll be more than happy to help you with whatever it is that you need my assistance with."

Draco kept his face neutral, but behind his mask his thoughts were flying at snitch-speed. What kind of game was going on here? As far as he knew, he hadn't done anything to pique the interest of the ministry. Did this have something to do with his Death Eater past?

_Undoubtedly, _Draco thought bitterly. _Voldemort's stain will stay with me till the end of my days._

Embrey scraped his throat. "So, mister Malfoy, have you ever heard of Afflexia Lexcide?"

Draco blinked. "Excuse me?"

"Afflexia Lexcide," the Auror repeated, slower now. "A new and highly addictive calming potion."

That rang a bell somewhere, but Draco couldn't put his finger on it.

"It sounds vaguely familiar… at any rate it's not something I have ever used."

"Ah, well that doesn't surprise me; a man who knows as much about potions as you would think twice before drinking something if you don't know the exact ingredients of it."

"Well, I'm not a potions master, I'm sure my knowledge of the noble art of potions brewing is not all that much above average," Draco said with a small, cautious smile.

"You're too modest, Malfoy," Potter said. "The only one who got higher grades in potions than you was Hermoine."

"Is that a compliment, Potter? Never thought I'd see the day," Draco said sardonically. He knew he shouldn't have said that, but he couldn't resist. An old, long-forgotten instinct had awakened inside of him, and for a moment he felt like he was fourteen years old again.

"And I never thought I'd see the day that you would be modest… one might even suspect there's something behind it…"

"Like what, Auror Potter?"

"Like an illegal trade in Afflexia Lexcide."

Draco noticed Embrey didn't seem to be happy with that remark. _Potter probably spilled the beans too early, _Draco thought bemusedly.

Draco could use this.

"Oh, so that's what this is about?" Draco sat up straighter. "You think I'm sporting an illegal potions lab in my cellar? Well, be my guest and search the house, Potter. I have nothing to hide. And if you'd take look into my financial books – which you've probably already done, if you're not as completely incompetent at your job as you appear to be –"

That was unnecessary, but satisfying, as Draco watched how Potter's face flushed in anger.

" – you'd see that I'm perfectly clean. No suspicious inflows of gold, no dubious investments. I'm not involved in any kind of illegal business; I'm not my father, no matter how much you Aurors might want me to be. After all, I'm a former Death Eater, so I'm an easy scapegoat, right? But you won't dump this on me, Potter, not a chance. I don't have anything to do with this Lexcide business, and until you have some kind of solid proof against me, I suggest you stop wasting my time and leave."

Potter opened his mouth to reply, but closed it when Embrey shot him a warning look.

"Well, Mr. Malfoy, that was all for now," Embrey said as he stood up. "You will be seeing us again. The investigation had just started, and I'm sure we'll have some more… specific questions for you the next time we visit. Until then, have a nice day."

"Likewise, Mr. Embrey," Draco said, and he graciously rose to his feet and shook the Auror's hand. "Potter." Draco nodded at Potter, not dignifying him with a handshake. Potter would probably refuse it anyway. No grudge as strong as a high school grudge.

"Good luck with your investigation. I hope you catch those criminals as soon as possible," Draco said sweetly.

"Thank you for your concern, Mr. Malfoy," Embrey said with a nod. "We will. It's just a matter of time. Sooner or later the bad guys will make a mistake. They always do."

Draco raised his eyebrows slightly but said nothing. He waved the Aurors goodbye as they left through the floo. Once the two men were gone, he let out a loud groan of frustration.

"Argh, fucking Potter! Son of a bitch!"

Typical, real typical. Some kind of arsehole is turning half the wizarding world into an addict, and who do the Aurors suspect? Him. And for no good reason other than the fact that he's an ex-Death Eater, wealthy and good at potions. Fucking bullshit. It was probably all Potter's fault. It was clear as daylight the git had some kind of deep-rooted inferiority complex. Well, Draco wasn't going to lay down and take this like some kind of Hufflepuff. If Potter would ever have the nerve to arrest him, Draco would send so many lawyers to his doorstep his battle with Voldemort would seem like a nice walk in the park in comparison.

_That will teach him. Fucking golden savior._

Draco was not worried. Not at all. The wizarding legal system may be far from infallible, and Potter's head may be as thick as that of a troll, Draco had gold. Lots of gold. And gold always weighed more.

No, he was definitely not worried.

He paced up and down the room, chewing on the inside of his cheek. His wand hand was itching, and he longed to hex something. Preferably something Potter-shaped.

_I really need to blow off some steam, _he thought. _Before I hex the chairs into piles of ash. Marianne really isn't going to like that. _

Then he thought of Charlie, and he would have smiled if he hadn't been so pissed off.

-_** TBC - **_


	9. Chapter 9

Bam, update within a week! (Alright, almost within a week.) I am proud of myself.

No worries guys, everything will become clear as the story develops. And the magic in this story is not quite the same as that in canon, as this chapter will (hopefully) explain. And of course, every story needs a few turns for the worse. What's a happy ending worth if it isn't preceded by disaster?

I hope you all like this new chapter.

Disclaimer: nothing new here. _**  
**_

* * *

_**Chapter 9**_

_The thing with doing something bad is that you can always rationalize it into something good. As an outsider, it is easy to judge someone who has done something that you perceive as wrong. You don't know them; you don't know their troubles and their thoughts, nor the events in the past that drove them to this point. Sometimes people simply have no other options. That's how good people can do things that seem evil and out of character. Because if you think about it, and carefully weigh your options, you will sometimes discover that doing the bad thing is the only right thing to do. And that's all there is to it. _

These were George's thoughts as he walked through Knockturn alley. He was wearing a black robe with a hood to obscure his face and hair. He knew he looked like he belonged here, but he still felt uncomfortable and out of place. This was a place for those who were mentally or physically broken, poor, shunned or otherwise disappointed by society; people who had lost their scruples or had never possessed them in the first place. George did not fit into any of these categories, not really.

Knockturn alley was a very long and narrow alley, with many turns and slanted walls that seemed to bend towards the pavement, so there was a constant shadow over the street. No sunlight ever reached the muddy street stones of Knockturn alley – that's what made so very suited for shady businesses and attracted all kinds of obscures figures.

Today, George posed as one of those figures, and despite the dark scenery and his leering discomfort, he felt oddly enlightened. Because what he was about to do, wasn't bad. It was the merely the only seasonable option left, and therefore the right one.

And what was 'bad', really, other than an abstract, ambiguous term without real meaning? Some people would say that the pranks he and Fred had pulled in Hogwarts were bad. Or that murder was always bad, even when it was rightful vengeance. George could not agree with that. If Fred's murderer would appear before him now, he would kill them without hesitation. He knew he would be able to do it. Perhaps he would even _Crucio_ them. His hate was that strong. Did that make him a bad person? No, George didn't think so.

What he was about to do now didn't make him a bad person either. Just a desperate one.

The man was standing in a place where the shadows were particularly dark; in the doorpost of an abandoned shop. The doors and windows were boarded up, and the shop sign was cracked and made unreadable with dark green paint. The same paint was used to write down obscenities on the boarding.

George approached the man. He was of average height and had an ordinary face with pepper-and-salt coloured hair and brown eyes. George did not doubt that the man was either polyjuiced or wearing a recognize-me-not glamour, the latter more likely than the first. Glamours generally did not work on people who knew you well, but they would prevent strangers and distant acquaintances from recognizing your face (unless they knew about the charm, of course). If they looked at you, they would see a boring, unremarkable face that they wouldn't be able to pinpoint afterwards. It was quite advanced magic.

"I'm the guy," George said to him, keeping his voice steady and quiet.

The man's eyes scanned the street. He was searching for Aurors and other priers, and George couldn't help but glance around cautiously himself. There were only a handful of people in sight, and they were all minding their own business. It was a ground rule in Knockturn: you mind your own business and never _ever_ talk to Aurors.

To make sure they were not being spied on, the man cast _Homenum Revelio_, and then a _Muffliato_.

"Alright, this is it," the man said as he pulled a small tin can from his robe pocket. The wrapper told George that the can contained billywig sting slime, an ingredient that was used in many potions. But George knew for a fact that wasn't what was really inside the can, just as there hadn't been cough syrup in the flasks of Docter Cabble's Cough Syrup.

"How do you suspect me to sell that?" George said. "I own a joke shop, not a potions ingredient store."

"You don't put it on the shelves," the man said, slow yet somewhat impatient, as if he was talking to an annoying child. "We don't want people to buy it thinking it's sting slime. You hide the stash somewhere in the back of the shop. Sell it only to those who are specifically asking for it. One can is one dose; eight galleons. Nobody can know what you're doing. They can't even suspect it. So find a way to make the deal outside the public eye. If you need to change the wrapper of the can in order to do so, no problem. Be as creative as you see fit. Whatever you do, just make sure you _don't_ get caught. The boss might bail you out if you proof useful and trustworthy, but if you cock it up you're on your own. And do _not_, under any circumstances, make a deal with the Aurors. Not even when you're facing a penalty. Because if you do, we _will_ get to you, and your family. Is that clear?"

George swallowed. His heart was beating fast. He could turn back now, it wasn't too late yet.

"Yes," he answered. He could do this. He wouldn't mess up, and nobody would find out. He'd have an extra source of income, hopefully enough to keep the store, and always have plenty of elixir within his reach.

The threats towards his family made George a little anxious, but it wasn't as if he hadn't been expecting this. It was no more than logical that the Organization would precautions like these to insure that their sellers would keep their mouths shut, even under pressure. He would've done the same thing, if he'd been in their position. Shady business call for shady strategies. And it wasn't as if George had a lot of information to betray to the Aurors. He had no clue as to who the boss was, and up till now he'd only been a buyer.

The man nodded. "Good. You get fifteen percent, as was the deal. If you want some product for yourself, you pay for it just like any other buyer, but with a twenty-five percent discount." He handed George a piece of parchment. "Here is the location of the product. Every two weeks there will be a new stash and a piece of parchment with the next location. Leave the gold, take the product and the parchment, and that's all. You won't see me again, unless you make trouble. If you want to reach me, you know how to do it. But I'd rather you didn't. Do we understand each other?"

"Yes."

George was feeling oddly excited now, though he also felt guilty. If his family knew what he was doing… No. They would never find out. George would make sure of that.

_But what would Fred have said? _a treacherous voice whispered in his mind.

George quickly shut the voice up. He did not want to think about what Fred would have said or thought, because all of this wouldn't have happened if Fred were still here. His death was what had turned everything to shit.

_Ron and Harry are Aurors… _

George worried his lower lip with his teeth. With Aurors in his circle of close friends and family, he'd have to be extra careful. They were on this case like fairies on honey; places like Knockturn alley were searched regularly now. That's why the Organization had changed the way they conducted their business. After Afflexia Lexcide was banned from the shops, the Organization had started selling it on the streets. This abandoned shop in Knockturn alley had been one of the selling points. But thanks to the prying Aurors (and the DIS before them), it was getting too risky. As a result, the Organization had started crimping people like George to sell the product. The Aurors were looking for suspicious cloaked figures in dark alleys, not lawful, respected citizens like George. And Ron and Harry would never even think of suspecting George.

"So the deal is done then?" George asked. "Do I have to sign a contract?"

The man grinned. "You just did. It's a verbal contract; consider it signed. Good luck lad." The man raised the corners of him mouth in what George thought was a supposed to be smile, but looked more like a cross between a smirk and a grimace, before he turned around and disapparated.

George let out the breath he had been holding. It was done then. He was now a dealer in very addictive and highly illegal calming elixir.

_You can say what you want about my life_, _but it isn't boring._

* * *

Charlie opened the door of his apartment, smelling of sweat and dragon-induced smoke. He pushed the door close with his foot whilst pulling off his shirt and made his way to the kitchen. He threw his shirt on a nearby chair, retrieved a cold beer from the fridge and plopped down on the brown leather couch that was the center of his spacious living room. The house was neater than it usually was; he had actually cleaned up before his date with Draco yesterday. Not that he was an extreme slob, he liked a clean and organized living space, but normally the floor wasn't this shiny, the piles of books and magazines not this orderly, and the kitchen counter far from spotless. Also there were more often than not clothes scattered here and there on chairs and sofas, and used cups and mugs on the shelves and tables. It looked much better now though, and Charlie vouched to improve his household-spells and clean up more often.

Charlie used his wand to open the windows. It was hot outside today, and when one was working with dragons, the air around you tented to get even hotter. Charlie's skin was covered with a think film of sweat. He craved a cold shower but felt too lazy to move. Then the floo blazed green, and Charlie was forced to get up so he could open the floo for the visitor. With a sigh, he walked to the simple, homely brick fireplace and tapped against it with his wand. Barely a second later, his sort-of-but-not-quite-yet boyfriend emerged from the fire.

A smile instantly appeared on Charlie's face.

"Drake," he said as he put his forgotten beer down on the mantelpiece. "What a pleasant surprise… or… not?" he asked when he saw the look on his lover's face.

"I'm pissed off, distract me," Draco said and he kissed Charlie roughly.

Charlie kissed him back. Dammit, he'd missed Draco, even though he'd seen him _very_ thoroughly yesterday. He felt like he was getting addicted.

All thoughts of showering were abandoned, and instead Charlie's mind focused on other, more dirty activities.

Then a nagging curiously started tugging at his thoughts. What had gotten Draco this riled up?

He put his hands on Draco's shoulders and gently pushed him away. "Wait – wait," he managed. "Slow down, what's going on?"

Draco sighed irritably and moved away from Charlie. "Stupid Aurors, that's going on! Somebody's spreading an illegal, addictive calming potion and they suspect me! I haven't done anyhting wrong, and yet I get bloody Potter breathing down my neck."

"Errr…" Charlie hoped Draco was speaking metaphorically.

Draco started pacing up and down the room, strongly reminding Charlie of a caged dragon.

"Wait, if you didn't do anything, why do they suspect you?"

"I don't know!" Draco threw his hand up in the air. "Probably because I was a Death Eater, and thus evil with a capital E in their book!"

"Okay just… calm down," Charlie said. "If you're innocent you have nothing to fear, right? It'll be alright."

"It won't be alright! You haven't seen Potter's face; he wants to nail my ass to the wall! And then there's the fucking weasel… how he got to be an Auror is a fucking mystery to me!"

"Hey, that's still my little brother you're talking about. He's a fine Auror, and Harry too," Charlie said, instinctively defensive.

Draco rolled his eyes and huffed. "Yeah right. They just got in because they're famous. I was in the same year as Weasley; I know how small his brain is."

"I think I know my brother a bit better than you do. He worked really fucking hard to get through the Auror Academy, he's not stupid."

Draco stood still, his eyes narrowing. "Whose side are you on?"

"What side? Since when are there sides? I'm on nobody's side!"

"There are _always_ sides," Draco hissed. "And you've got to be on one of them."

"That's fucking bullshit."

Charlie was starting to get angry. It felt as if somebody had lit a fire beneath his skin, slowly sending his temper to boiling temperatures.

"No, not knowing which side you're on – _that's _bullshit. My father says…" Draco faltered mid-sentence, suddenly looking vaguely sick.

Charlie could guess what he'd been about to say, and couldn't hold back a disbelieving laugh.

"What about your father, huh? Don't try to sell me _his _twisted ideas; we all know where those lead to."

"Don't you dare talk about my father!" Draco shouted, his face flushed.

"Why? I happen to know you used to talk about him all the time!"

Draco stepped forwards, and hit him – _really _hit him, fist in the face, and surprisingly hard too.

The blow had come as such a surprise to Charlie that he actually staggered back a few steps. A dull pain was throbbing in his jaw and he tasted blood in mouth.

"Ow, bloody hell…" he groaned as he massaged his painful jaw. He stared at Draco, who looked as shell-shocked as Charlie felt, and Charlie was torn between hitting him back and kissing him.

"Just… fuck you. Fuck you Charlie. Nevermind," Draco said, his voice unsteady and his face pale, before he turned around and disappeared through the floo.

Charlie licked his split, bleeding lip and stared at the empty floo. The flames died away and the apartment was suddenly very silent.

He grabbed his beer, which was thankfully still cold, and sank down on the couch to re-collect his thoughts.

_What the hell just happened?_

* * *

When Draco got home, he immediately went to his bedroom and lay down on his bed, curdled around his pillow like he used to do as a child when he was upset.

It didn't take him long to cool down. His anger ebbed away like a tide, laying bare his thoughts.

_This was not my fault. _

He'd once promised himself he would never make a mistake again, and he hadn't. There was nothing he'd done wrong, so there was nothing to feel guilty about.

_This was not my fault and I don't feel guilty._

_I don't, I really don't._

_No guilt-feeling whatsoever._

_…_

"Dammit!" Draco groaned and punched the mattress. He _did _feel guilty, and that meant he _had _done something wrong. Once again, he'd failed. He'd vowed he'd never make a mistake again, and had failed to live up to that promise.

_I failed. Of course I did. I always do. _

Draco wasn't sure what he regretted most: sort of consciously starting a fight with Charlie, hitting him, or insulting his family.

Not that it hadn't been true, what he'd said about the weasel. That Gryffindor prick really _had _the intelligence of a flubbworm, and he _was _getting treated differently because of his hero-status. But… he was also an Auror, and that meant that he had to possess some qualities Draco wasn't aware of. He must have grown at least half a brain since Hogwards, and the fact alone that he survived during the war meant that he had some definite skills. He'd helped defeat Voldemort. Sure, he probably hadn't done much more than tag along while Potter and Granger did the actual work, but he'd still been there. He'd helped. He'd survived.

So maybe, just _very, very maybe, _Draco had been wrong about Ronald Weasley. Maybe he wasn't as stupid as Draco wanted him to be. Maybe he actually was a decent Auror.

Draco buried his face in the pillow and sighed into the soft, crisp fabric. He wished he had a time-turner, so could he go back in time and prevent this whole mess from happening.

_I should apologize to Charlie. _

Unfortunately, he really, _really _did not like apologizing. It was just… not something he did. His pride did not allow it. The last time he'd apologized was at his trial, when he'd expressed his remorse for everything he'd done during the war with tears in his eyes and true fear and regret in his heart. It had been a horrible and humiliating experience he never wished to repeat.

_And Charlie insulted my family as well, _Draco thought stubbornly._ The things he said about my father…_

Draco tried to recall Charlie's exact words, and realized the other man hadn't really insulted Lucius. He'd just said that his ideas were twisted, and that wasn't as much an insult as it was a truth. Many of Lucius' ideas and believes _had _been warped, and that hurt because Draco knew in his heart that not everything his father had taught him was wrong. Lucius had been an intelligent man who knew much about the world, especially the world of power-plays and business. Without his father's lessons, Draco would have never been able to successfully lead the family company. But for every wise word that had left his father's mouth there had been five lies, and it were those lies and misconceptions that had led to Lucius' downfall – and almost to Draco's as well.

Which of his father's ideas he should hold onto and which he should reject still wasn't entirely clear to Draco. Every time he thought he knew exactly what to believe and how to make his way in life, something happened to alter his perspective and make him doubt himself all over again.

When he was young, the exact opposite used to be true. As a kid, Draco used to blindly repeat what his father told him, believing every word to be the ultimate and rightful truth. He wanted to be just like him, and did not make a secret of it.

It embarrassed him now, to know how he'd once been and how he'd acted. That was why he'd reacted the way he had when Charlie reminded him of this particular characteristic of his younger self. Draco didn't like having his flaws pointed out to him, because it meant he had to stare them in the eye and fix them.

Sometimes it was hard to be an adult.

Draco sat up and stared at the quidditch players on the posters on the wall. He knew he was too old for quidditch posters, but he'd never found the courage to remove them. It was one of the last – perhaps _the _last – remnants of his youth. Looking at them made him sad and happy at same time.

He pressed a hand against his forehead and realized his headache was gone. It seemed the fight with Charlie had helped clear his head, odd as it may seem. He felt positively horrible; guilty, distressed, frustrated and utterly _stupid_, but his thoughts weren't sluggish anymore and his headache gone without a trace. His memories were also clear: he remembered every detail of his meeting with D'Ancelet, the letter he'd written to his accountant, and how he had fallen asleep on the couch.

He also remembered the feeling he'd had when he woke up. It had been strange… like a hangover or an upcoming flu but not quite the same…

Draco briefly wondered if somebody had messed with his mind, but dismissed the idea pretty quickly. Beside his mother and Marianne, the only person who could've been responsible for such a thing was D'Ancelet, and that was just plain ridiculous. There was a reason people weren't getting imperio'd and fake memory-charmed left and right. If D'Ancelet had used magic to make Draco sign a contract or something like that, it was inevitable that Draco would find out sooner or later, and then D'Ancelet could go explain himself to the Aurors. Mind-altering charms always left traces. The mind healers at St. Mungo's could tell with relative certainty whether somebody had been under the influence of _Imperio_ or not, and obliviation and fake memory implants scarred the brain for eternity. It was hard to tell the difference though, and if several mind-altering charms were used in combination, they would form one scar.

Of course he could be under the influence of _Imperio_ right now, but Draco was familiar enough with the curse to know that wasn't the case. Draco knew his own mind well, and had spent many hours training _Imperio _and occlumency with his aunt Bellatrix and the house-elves. She had cast _Imperio _on him multiple times, to make him acquainted with the feeling.

A shiver ran down his spine. No, he definitely wasn't being controlled by _Imperio_ right now, and he couldn't imagine that D'Ancelet would mess with his mind. The man was smarter than that. Nevertheless, Draco realized he should be more careful in the future. There were ways to protect oneself against mind-altering charms. Draco knew his father had always taken the necessary precautions when he met with one of his business associates. Of course, Lucius had moved in far more dangerous circles than Draco. That was why Draco had never bothered with these sorts of things before. But now, he was regretting that carelessness. He should protect himself better, just to be safe.

He should also apologize to Charlie. Surely the other man would forgive him, right?

A sudden feeling of uncertainty came over him. What if Charlie wouldn't accept his apologies? What if he didn't want to see him again?

Draco felt a cold knot in his stomach at the thought.

_It wouldn't be _that _disastrous, _he told himself. _It would be awkward, yes, and unfortunate, because Charlie is ridiculously fit, but it's not like I _need _him or something._

It was a comforting thought. Draco decided to hold onto it.

_Yes, I'm making too big a deal of this. Charlie's not the only guy in the world. I'll survive without him.  
_

_A Slytherin always survives.  
_

But he'd rather do it with Charlie than without.

* * *

"I have to frank with you Potter," Embrey said soberly as they walked through ministry hallways. "That wasn't your best call."

"I know," Harry said mournfully. "I'm sorry. I fucked up."

Harry felt like an idiot. His behavior had been unprofessional and completely out of line. It was just… when he looked at Malfoy, it was like looking at a window in time. The snarky git always brought out his childish, competitive side – a remnant of their old rivalry. It was frustrating. Harry didn't even really believe that Malfoy was behind this. It was too out of character. After everything that happened, Malfoy would be lying low. He wouldn't do something like this, knowing that the ministry would immediately look in his direction.

Embrey glanced at him with a sympathetic look in his eyes. "I wouldn't say that. It wasn't _that _bad. Whether Malfoy knows more about this than he let on or not, he wouldn't have slipped. He's too careful for that. Let's just hope the others have found something that can help us. We need some solid evidence, otherwise we won't be getting anywhere with this case."

"Thanks," Harry said and smiled. "I won't make a mistake like this again, I promise."

Harry and Embrey entered the Auror office, in good time for the briefing.

"So, what are your thoughts on Barrin?" Embrey asked as they made their way to their desks.

Harry's brows furrowed. "He's paranoid, probably hiding something."

Hugh Barrin was the man they'd talked to before Malfoy. He'd been far less accommodating than the former prince of Slytherin and had refused to let them through the floo. Embrey had been forced to talk to the man through the fire, while Harry stayed behind.

_They really should invent group floo calls_, Harry thought. _If muggle telephones can do it, surely magic can pull it off as well. _

Perhaps he should talk Hermoine about it later.

"Yeah, he was hiding something," Embrey said pensively. "I think we caught him at a bad time. He was sweating and his eyes kept darting to the door. But somehow I doubt he has something to do with the Lexcide. He'd didn't come off as the brightest chocoball in the box, if you know what I mean."

"Maybe he's involved, but not one of the top dogs."

"It's possible," Embrey agreed.

Head Auror Leafe strode out of her private office with a scowl on her face. All conversation ceased immediately.

"Why is it so light in here?" Leafe barked, and she spelled the lamination half close, reducing the (magical) sunlight that had been streaming freely through the windows to a few thin bars.

Rumour had it Head Auror Leafe was a Hufflepuff. Harry found it hard to believe though. Someone who looked as much like a blood-thirsty panther as Leafe couldn't possibly be a Hufflepuff.

"Alright, let me hear what you've got," Leafe said. "It better be good, because the minister is getting impatient. I've been pestered by flying memos all day."

One by one, the Aurors gave detailed reports of their findings. Harry listened with interest, while taking mental notes of everything that seemed important.

As the briefing progressed, Harry's mood got grimmer. The frown on Embrey's face and the thin line of the Head Auror's mouth reflected that sentiment.

"It's a dead end," Warrant-Auror Kelly said in conclusion of his report. "White was a social hermit and a routine person. He had no enemies, and his neighbors haven't noticed anything out of the ordinary. No witnesses, no clues, nothing."

"Marvellous," Head Auror Leafe said grimly. "What about the finances?" She looked around. "Sunnerman and Weasley… where the hell are Sunnerman and Weasley?"

"We're here!" Ron said as he half-fell into the office, Sunnerman on his heels. Ron was panting and his face was pink. His blue eyes were gleaming and he was obviously fighting down a grin. Even Sunnerman's usually stoic face betrayed hints of excitement.

"We've got something!" Ron said triumphantly.

"Several somethings," Sunnerman corrected him.

Head Auror Leafe quirked an eyebrow. "Let's hear it then."

"This morning, Malfoy transferred five thousandth galleons to a vault in Kyrgyzstan. The vault belongs to a manufacturer of self-walking shoes that is owned by the Malfoy Company. The suspicious thing is that until the first wizarding war, regular transfers of gold were made to the vault. During the war however, the transfers stopped. After the war ended, the transfers started again, until the second war began. The transfer that was made today is the first since the beginning of the second war. So that's weird, right? Why would you only transfer galleons to a company all the way in bloody Kyrgyzstan when there's no war? And why would you all of the sudden transfer _five thousandth_ _galleons_?"

"Does Malfoy own more companies abroad?" Leafe asked.

"A few," Sunnerman answered. "Most companies Malfoy owns or invests in are British. Beside that there are a few in Italy, France, Germany, Norway and Denmark. Outside of Europe there is the shoe factory in Kyrzyzstan, a robe factory in China and a massage center in Saudi-Arabia. It seems unlikely that the shoe factory produces Lexcide, but it could be that the factory is a passing station for Lexcide-gold. We have already owled the Kyrgyzstan bank, but we haven't gotten a reply yet."

Leafe scanned the rolls of parchment Sunnerman had given to her. "If your theory is right, the factory in Kyrgyzstan is not the only link in the chain. Unfortunately, foreign wizarding banks, as well as their governments, are rarely, if ever, cooperative with our investigations, especially when we have little evidence to back our suspicions up."

Ron snorted. "We've noticed that. One of our persons of interest is a Frenchman, and most of his gold is in French vaults. We owled the French Goblins, but they refuse to send us anything."

"I'll contact the French ministry," the Head Auror said. "I might be able to persuade them to assist us. Anything more?"

"Yes," Sunnerman said. "We've discovered that Barrin pays regular visits to the muggle world. Every month, he exchanges galleons to muggle pounds. What's interesting is that this gold comes from his personal vault, not the family vault he shares with his wife. It doesn't seem to be related to the Lexcide, but we thought it was worth mentioning anyway."

"He's visiting muggle prostitutes behind his wifey's back!" Auror Vergo joked, and the other Aurors snickered in response.

"Whatever desirability the muggle world holds for mister Barrin, get to the bottom of it," Leafe said dryly. "The minister wants every stone turned or we'll all going to get sacked. Empty threats, of course, but the Lexcide is costing the ministry bags of gold, and I fear for our budget. So if you want to keep your Christmas bonuses and have champagne and cake on the department's annual New Year's party instead of tap water and dry biscuits, I suggest you all get to work."

There was a collective gasp for breath. The Christmas bonuses and New Year's party were in danger; things just got serious.

Harry felt more determined than ever to make this case the first real success in his Auror-career. In the light of Ron and Sunnerman's findings, it seemed that Malfoy was the key to this success. Ron certainly believed so. Still, Harry could not shake off the feeling that Malfoy was not the bad guy this time. There definitely was something fishy was going on with Malfoy, but Harry couldn't believe Malfoy was the actual brain behind the Lexcide business. For a sneaky Slytherin, Malfoy actually was a fairly predictable idvidual. An illegal trade in addictive potions was completely out of line with everything Harry knew about the git. But then, he couldn't know that for certain, could he? Malfoy could've changed.

_Either way, those five thousanth galleons are suspicious to say the least. Let's hope the Kyrgyzstan bank is willing to help._

Harry realized he didn't even know where Kyrgyzstan was, and immediately felt dishearted.

_Not all potion factories have been searched though, _he thought hopefully. _Perhaps the answer lays there._

They still hadn't found the location where the Lexcide was currently being manufactured, nor had they found out where the manufacturers got the ingredients. If they had, the case would be as good as closed...

_**- TBC - **_

_**Let me know what you thought of this chapter. I do appreciate feedback.  
**_


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